I ask of you as upright jurymen, In what have I offended――where and when? Why of the throng should Burke the scapegoat be Or Reverend Cautley’s wrath descend on me? As to the _mill_, I own that I was there―― All went on peaceably, and all was fair; Arm’d with high courage, strong in heart and limbs, The men were at the _scratch_ in gallant trims. And smiling confidence was on their brows, When Parson Cautley first kick’d up a rows, And by an effort, frivolous as weaks, Back’d by a rural _traps_, and Smith the _beaks_, Sought, and perhaps he deem’d that he was right, To rush into the ring and stop the fight. What if the Riot Act was read――Alas! The Deaf’un couldn’t hear it if it was! And as far as I’m concern’d it is a facts, It might have been a sermon or “the Acts;” But as to swearing, or a hint to drop, Out of the ring I pitch’d him neck and crop, Tho’ towards a parson I feel reverence due, Josh Cautley states the thing that isn’t true. But let that pass――the issue I’ll not shirks―― Convinc’d your fiat will acquit Deaf Burkes; Proclaiming that from testimony strong, The pugilist was right, the parson wrong. I’ve studied, sirs, since my career began, To prove myself through life an honest man―― Humble my origin, my lot obscure, I never came the artful dodge, tho’ poor. I ne’er gave way to lewdness, nor to lush, Nor did an act for which I’ve cause to blush. True, I ne’er figur’d as a man of letters, But yet I know’d my duty to my betters. And never deem’d, however mean my station, Swearing and swaggering pleasant conversation; Yet, I confess, I lov’d in boyhood prime, To hear of boxing in the olden time; Of feats perform’d by those heroic men―― Mendoza, Humphries, Johnson, and Big Ben, Jem Belcher, Gregson, tough Tom Cribb, and Gully, Whose hard-earn’d laurels time can never sully. Fir’d by their deeds, I cried, “Who knows but Burke May in the Prize Ring some day go to work, And proud of pluck that never warm’d a curs, Prove at the scratch an ugly customers?” Ripe for a chance I fearlessly defied The sturdiest bruisers by the waterside; And for the love of glory, not of tin. To many a hardy cove I’ve pitched it in. But on my fistic feats I will not dwell, What I have done let “Fistiana” tell. * * * * *