EPILOGUE.

363

THE CHAMPION.

O mourn not for prize-fighting kiddies inglorious ;

Lament not the fate of those swells of the Ring:The Championship's mine ! for I'm ever victorious,

And fam'd Boxiana my prowess shall sing!Then hoist the black fogle—let marrow-bones rattle—

And push round the skulls which with claret o'er-flow;Drink, drink to the Champion, who, fairly in battle,

The famed men of muscle for ever laid low!

THE GLUTTON.

No matter what—flesh, fowl, or fish—

If man become a Glutton ;With gout he feeds from ev'ry dish—

Veal, ven'son, beef, or mutton.Eating—drinking—panting—puffing!—O the dear delights of stuffing!

But when the greedy EpicureA god thus makes his belly,

I mix some poison—slow, but sure—In gravy, soup, or jelly.

On the couch, then, see him lying!—

Writhing—groaning—gasping—dying!