By a Person of Honour.
_The lureing Falkner flies over the_ Downs,
_And_ Tom _the Huntsman with his deep mouth’d Hounds_,
Joler, & Smooker _make the Woods to ring,
Whilst_ Poacher _with his_ Light-foot _in a String,
Goes silent on, beating each Hedge and Bush,
With a design to snap poor frightful_ Puss:
_And next_ Jockey _comes prancing o’er the_ Plain,
_Guiding his Courser with an Artful Rein;
And off the scoreful speed he scours away,
And whips, and spurs in hopes to gain the Day.
Whilst th’wanton_ Swains _they Dance, and piping sit,
As if in Amrous Airs were only Wit.
Next these Gamesters at Cards and Dice we place,
The Rook, the Silver Fool, and Sattin Ass,
That play the Knave, and Cogg a Dye to make
Themselves a gainer by the ill got stake.
These are all sports that little profit bring: }
But noble_ Cocking _is the Game I Sing, }
Worthy the greatest Captain, greatest King. }
This Pastime I above the rest prefer,
In that it fits a Man for Peace or War_.
Cocking _breeds courage where before was none,
And makes men Stout and die that us’d to run_,
Cocking _breeds cunning too, makes men contrive,
And puts them in a way to live and thrive:
And if the Pious_ Indians _say true,
It makes Men Witty, Good, and Godly too.
Who then would Hunt and Hawk their time away,
Or at the Cards, or Dice sit down to Play:
When they by powerful_ Cocking, _this may do,
Gain Courage, Wit, and Wealth, and Heaven too._
A Copy of Verses UPON TWO COCKS FIGHTING.
By Dr. _R. Wild_.
_Go you tame Gallants, you that have a Name,
And would accounted be Cocks of the Game;
That have brave Spurrs to shew for’t, and can Crow,
And count all Dunghill breed, that cannot show
Such painted Plumes as yours; which think’t no vice.
With Cock-like-Lust to tread your Cockatrice.
Tho’ Peacocks, Woodcocks, Weathercocks you be.
If y’are not Fighting-Cocks y’ are not for me.
I of two Feather’d Compatants will Write;
And he that means to th’ Life to express their Fight,
Must make his Ink the Blood which they did spill,
And from their dying Wings must take his Quill._
_No sooner were the doubtful People set,
The Match made up, and all that would had bet;
But strait the skilful Judges of the Play
Brought forth their sharp heel’d Warriors; and they
Were both in Linnen Baggs, as if ’twere meet
Before they Dy’d, to have their Winding sheet.
Into the Pit they’re brought, and being there
Upon the Stage, the_ Norfolk _Canticleer
Looks stoutly at his ne’er before seen Foe,
And like a Challenger began to Crow,
And clap his Wings, as if he would display
His Warlike Colours which were Black and Grey.
Mean time the wary_ Wisbich _walks and breaths
His active Body, and in Fury Wreaths
His comely Crest, and often looking down,
He whets his angry Beak upon the Ground.
This done they meet, not like that Coward Breed
Of_ Æsop’s; _these can better Fight than Feed;
They scorn the Dunghill, ’tis their only Prize,
To dig for Pearls within each other’s Eyes.
They Fought so nimbly that ’twas hard to know,
To th’ Skilful, whether they did Fight or no;
If that the Blood which dy’d the fatal Floor,
Had not born Witness of’t. Yet Fought they more:
As if each Wound were but a Spur to Prick
Their Fury forward, Lightnings not more quick,
Or red, than were their Eyes: ’Twas hard to know
Whether ’twas Blood or Anger made them so.
I’m sure they had been out, had they not stood
More safe, by being fenced in with Blood.
Thus they vy’d blows; but yet_ (Alas!) _at length,
Altho’ their Courage were full try’d, their Strength,
And Blood began to Ebb. You that have seen
A Watry Combat on the Sea between
Two angry-roaring-boyling Billows, how
They march, and meet, and dash their curled Brow;
Swelling like Graves, as tho’ they did intend
T’intomb each other e’er the Quarrel end;
But when the Wind is down, blustring Weather,
They are made Friends, and sweetly run together;
May think these Champions such; their Blood grows low
And they which leapt before, now scarce can go:
Their Wings which lately at each blow they clapt,
(As if they did applaud themselves) now flapt;
And having lost th’ advantage of the Heel,
Drunk with each others Blood, they only reel;
From either Eyes such drops of Blood did fall,
As if they wept them for their Funeral.
And yet they fain would Fight; they came so near,
Methought they meant into each other’s Ear
To whisper Wounds; and when they could not rise,
They lay and lookt Blows int’ each others Eyes,
But now the Tragic Part! after this fit,
When_ Norfolk _Cock had got the best of it,
And_ Wisbich _lay a Dying, so that none,
Tho’ sober but might venture Seven to One;
Contracting, like a dying, Taper all
His strength, intending with the Blow to fall:
He struggles up, and having taken Wind,
Ventures a Blow, and strikes the other blind.
And now poor_ Norfolk _having lost his Eyes,
Fights only guided by Antapathies:
With him_ (Alas!) _the Proverb holds not true;
The blows his Eyes ne’er saw his Heart must rue.
At length by chance he stumbled on his foe,
Not having any power to strike a blow,
He falls upon him with his wounded Head,
And makes his Conqueror’s wings his Feather-bed:
Where lying sick his Friends were very Charie
Of him, and fetcht in hast Apothecary;
But all in vain his Body did so blister,
That ’twas uncapable of any Clister;
Wherefore at length opening his fainting Bill
He call’d a Scriv’ner and thus made his Will._
Inprimis_, Let it never be forgot,
My Body freely I bequeath to th’ Pot,
Decently to be boil’d, and for its Tomb
Let it be buried in some hungry Womb_.
Item. _Executors I will have none,
But he that on my side laid Seven to One:
And like a Gentleman that he may live,
To him and to his Heirs my Comb I give,
Together with my Brains, that all may know,
That oftentimes his Brains did use to crow_.
Item. _It is my will to th’ weaker Ones
Whose Wives complain of them, I give my Stones;
To him that’s dull I do my Spurs impart;
And to the Coward I bequeath my Heart:
To Ladies that are Light it is my will,
My Feathers should be given; and for my Bill
I’d giv’t a Taylor but it is so short,
That I’m afraid he’ll rather curse me for’t:
And for the Apothecaries fee who meant
To give me a Clister, let my Rump be sent_.
Lastly, _because I feel my Life decay,
I yield and give to_ Wisbich _Cock the day._
A Copy of Verses Writ upon a COCK-MATCH.
By a Lover of the _Royal Sport_.
_The Clock has struck four, let’s hasten away
And five hunder’d or more as I hear say;
Are gon to the Pitt, to see_ Dragon _Fight,
With_ Tom _of Ten Thousands, Tabering White.
And now the_ Red Pile, _that kills at a Hol’t;
He Fights with_ Barr-Dun, _that won the_ Baye Colt.
_And_ York-shire Gray; _which at Newmarket Fought,
And won the two Guinnies laid to a Groat;
Must Fight with_ Old Cuckoo _this afternoon,
And kills him out right, I hold you a Crown.
Now, now they come in, what odds of the Match_,
Dragon _he’s Wounded, the very first Touch.
Ten Guinnies to Five, well Fought_ little White;_
Dragon’s _choak’d his choa’d and quite of his Fight,
Come twenty Guinnies to two for a Bett,
I hold any Mony sett Feeder sett.
Hold, hold stand off he fights, what odds—E’gad.
A-ho-_Dragon _has pind him though the Head.
Come, come my Lord, the Guinnies thirty two
And sixteen more_ Sir John, _I claim of You.
These were rare Cocks indeed, what odds o’th next_
Pile _for a Piece, yet if_ Barr Dunn _be vext;
And come to Fight in blood a holt or two
All’s up, for then he’ll strike him through, and through.
There have at all they Fight it rarely well;
Which has the odds? Egad no one can tell.
Come Gold to Silver, I am for the_ Dun,
_Pox of ill Luck, all’s up, the_ Pile _has won;
And but in time, for he has lost an Eye;
And bleeds so fast, he cannot chuse but Dye.
Well, Captain come the next, what odds of these
Ten pound of Either Side, take which you please,
I’ll be for the_ New market Gray, _’tis don.
And I am for the_ Cuckoo, _cause he’ll run;
What run away? no, no Sir, only Shift,
Duggle, and dowke, turn to the right, and left.
You know Sir, how, yes I know what you mean;
But what if after all, your_ Dugler’s _Slain,
I’ll venture that, and bett you Ten Pound more:
’Tis done my Lord, I hold you Six, to Four.
I take it._ Cuckoo _Fights it rarely well
So there Lad, there, the_ Gray _begins to swell.
Well he’s a rare Revenging Cock indeed
And Spight of Fate he makes the_ Cuckoo _Bleed,
See how he Storms the Subtile headed Thief;
Yet after all he’ll run him out o’ns Life.
No, no, the_ Cuckoo _sinks, his race is run,
The Battle’s Ended and the_ Gray _has Won.
And now they Shoutings rise, and march away,
Each takes his Bottle, and so Ends the Day._
_FINIS._
Transcriber‘s Notes:
Underscores “_” before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_
in the original text.
Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved.
Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations
in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.