“Cribb, Cooper, Carter, need not fear great Donnelly’s renown, For at his wake we’re seated here, while he is lying down; For Death, that primest swell of all, has laid him on the floor, And left us here, alas! to bawl, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’ “EPITAPH. “Here lies Sir Daniel Donnelly, a pugilist of fame, In Ireland bred and born was he, and he was genuine game; Then if an Irishman you be, when you have read this o’er, Go home and drink the memory of him who is no more.” “Childe Daniel—A Lament. “In Fancy-land there is a burst of woe, The spirit’s tribute to the fallen; see On each scarr’d front the cloud of sorrow glow, Bloating its sprightly shine. But what is he For whom grief s mighty butt is broach’d so free? Were his brows shadow’d by the awful crown, The bishop’s mitre, or high plumery Of the mail’d warrior? Won he his renown On pulpit, throne, or field, whom Death hath now struck down? “He won it in the field, where arms are none, Save those the mother gives to us. He was A climbing star, which had not fully shone; Yet promised, in his glory, to surpass Our champion star ascendant: but, alas! The sceptred shade that values early might, And pow’r, and pith, and bottom, as the grass, Gave with his fleshless fist a buffet slight— · · · · · “’Tis done. Green-mantled Erin May weep; her hopes of milling sway past by, And Cribb, sublime, no lowlier rival fearing, Before, sole Ammon of the fistic sky, Concerted, quaffing his blue ruin high, Till comes the swell that come to all men must, By whose ‘foul blow’ Sir Daniel low doth lie, Summons the champion to resign his trust, And mingles his with kings’, slaves’, chieftains’, beggars’ dust!” The Funeral.