The fortnight was now over, the morning came at last, The rising dawn, was ushered with snow, and biting blast, As on the Fifteen Acres, all in the Phoenix Park, The duellists were waiting the Arab steeds, when, hark! They heard a distant braying, as 'twere a trump of brass, 'Twas followed by a donkey, and then a second ass, Came guided by his halter, unto the fated spot, Said Pat O'Byrne and O'Gorman, "O, powdhers, this is rot!" But yet a queen of beauty was their's the prize to win. "We better pause no longer, but instantly pitch in," Said Pat O'Byrne, and Gorman. They tossed for choice of ass, And pick of blade, then wheeling, they faced upon the grass. I was for Kit O'Gorman a second on that day, To see the flashing rapiers, to hear the donkeys bray Was sight and sound to think of, the sylvan haunts were rife With echoes reverbrated from crash of deadly strife; Up went each donkey backwards, while scintillating wales Of flashing steels, were echoed, by lashing of their tails, For lo! the fight was doubled, the skittish donkeys sought, To variegate the contest, and capered round, and fought; They gave no chance. The foemen, with awkward clink of steels, Struck now and then, while skew-ways the donkeys fought with heels,-- 'Twas six o'clock commencing, and now, the strokes of ten, Were sounding from the city, and still these mounted men, Had not received abrasion, a cut, a prod, or crack, When both were somersaulted, from off each asses' back; The weapons went in splinters, as on the frosty grass, Each foeman sprawled a moment, and loudly cursed his ass. The assmen, quickly bounded unto their feet again, And watched the seconds, chasing the donkeys round the plain; And when at length, we caught them, and brought them back once more, With fits of indignation, the baffled foemen swore; "Bad scran to it!" said Gorman, "O'Musha, yis bad scran" Cried Pat O'Byrne, "It's not a fight, for any dacent man, Four mortial hours we've struggled--an' I'm all in a sweat!" Said Gorman "Pon me sowl, I got no chance to kill ye yet!" "The fight has been protracted, and divil a thing is done, I vote we go and tell her", said O'Byrne, "that it's no fun, To fight, as we've been fighting. Tib's Eve might come, and go, We'd still be found here fooling her donkeys thro' the snow." * * * * * They felt a queer foreboding of something, going down Parkgate-street, on that morning, till journeyed back to town; They sought the girl, to tell her the fix that they were in, When a larky-looking servant in the hall, began to grin.