On strengths and on plucks do men place sole reliance? Is nothing allow’d for manoovers and science? The systems of getting away would you fetter? Why, Bobbys, my tulips, you knows a deal better? Too fast with your rush you were constantly in, Till I gladly observed you had damaged your fin; Now, says I to my pals, you may alter your tones, For I see clear as muds that the games is my owns. And yet I received of hard hitting a gluts, You pepper’d my pimples, and damag’d my nuts; I never suppos’d you could come it so rough, And well pleased was I when you sing’d out “enough!” I’m sure you’ll allow, after triumphs achiev’d, I wasn’t so stale as some folks has conceived; Who swore that my powers pugilistics were spent, And I couldn’t inflict in fresh butter a dent. That I’ve not the same powers I’m free to deplore, As when I floor’d Byrne and a great many more; All out-and-out fancy boys, fearless and free, Then the Deaf’un aspired to be top of the tree. But lush and late hours, ’twould be folly to doubt, For a time wore my frame and my energies out; First Bendigo gave me a punishing dose, And I then by Nick Ward was consign’d to repose. Yet tho’ peaceful the course which for some time I shap’d, I felt that my gas had not wholly escap’d; My luck once again I was anxious to try, And with a true trump to turn out for a shy. The rest, Bobs, we knows, and I scorn all self praise, And I’d troubles sufficient the needful to raise; And, faith, I had almost despaired of a fight, When Young Dutch Sams came forward, and made it all right. Then we’ll meet at his cribs, Bobs, and go the whole hogs, In despatching his malts, his Virginny, and grogs, And as the pure drinkables mount to our brain, In “luck to the Rings” the bright pewters we’ll drain. And I’ll teach you to hact, both abroad and at home, The statutes of Greece and the statutes of Rome! I’ll teach you, Bob Castles, to understand traps, And make you a classical sorts of a chaps. And whether clean’d out or well breech’d with the stump, In wars or in peaces you’ll find me a trump, And whoever agin you foul slanders may hazard, Shall have from this mauley a tap on the mazzard. Then good-bye for the present――I wish you all _mércies_; You see I’m no bad one at tagging of werses, And ready at all times for going to vork, I’m yours, without any more gammon, DEAF BURKE.