You swore as Jem Ward had retir’d on the shelf, Your mind was made up to be Champion yourself; And you dar’d all the world to contend for the prize, While you barred neither country, nor colour, nor size. This was all wastly well, but how came you to trot Ere you knew if your challenge was answer’d or not, And to cut from your quarters in London adrift On the coming consarn between Adams and Swift? I tell you, my Deaf ’un, without any flourish, Your conduct appears most confoundedly currish; And as straightforward dealing was always my plan, If you wish for a customer, I am your man. You boast, my “Venetian,”[5] whoe’er may attack you, You have lordlings and dukes in attendance to back you; Well, as folks can’t suppose you are telling us fibs, Pray, are these patricians to fork out the dibs? I give you my word, Peter Crawley, my crony, On my part is ready for posting the pony; How is it, on yours, that your pal, Jemmy Burn, In spite of your chaffing, keeps dropping astern? Do you fancy that conduct like this will content us? Oh, let no folks say of you “_Non est Inwentus_;” Come forward, if e’er as a man you have felt, For Bendigo dares you to strive for the belt. Presume not brave fellows henceforward to taunt, For though of my prowess I’ve no wish to vaunt, An out-and-out good one I fac’d in big Caunt, Who in stature and muscle match’d owld John of Gaunt. In capital style you exhibit, I’m told, As statues of worthies wot figur’d of old; Apollor, and Wenus, and Mars to the letter―― Wouldn’t _Back-us_, my cove, suit a precious deal better? But perhaps, arter all――such, believe me, my trust is―― I may not exactly be doing you justice; And when you’re aware I will meet you at milling, At the scratch you may show yourself ready and willing. It will give me much pleasure, my Deaf ’un, I swear, To see how you’ll show off your attitudes there―― While I, glad to see you returned from your mizzling, As you’re partial to statues, may give you a chiselling. I trust that in Paris you show’d in prime feather, And that you and old Soult had a bottle together; I’d like to have seen how you sported your tanners, And mark the French polish you got on your manners. But perhaps it is time to leave off, my prime feller, For I an’t wery much of a writer or speller; Yourself and your pals of the Fancy arn’t green, And will doubtless diskiver at once what I mean. They may call me a fool, and the words won’t affront, For ’tis sartain they can’t say the same of my blunt; They may swear you are sartain to vanquish me――good―― But pray do not crow till you’re out of the wood.