The Passing of Prize-Fighting - A Collection of Classic Articles from Pugilistica, the Times and Punch Magazine

By Read Books Ltd.

This book contains classic material dating back to the 1900s and before. The content has been carefully selected for its interest and relevance to a modern audience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Read Books Ltd.
• Release date: Sep 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781473357273

Book preview

THE PASSING OF PRIZE-FIGHTING

. . . Till on the part where heav’d the panting Breath

A fatal Blow impress’d the Seal of Death.

Down dropp’d the Hero, welt’ring in his Gore,

And his stretch’d Limbs lay quiv’ring on the Floor.

Paul Whitehead

Monody on the Death of Young Dutch Sam

SCARCE THE illustrious Pet¹ his eyes had closed,

When in Death’s cold embrace, Dutch Sam repos’d;

As brave a fellow from life’s scenes dismiss’d

As ever faced a foe or clenched a fist;

Brave without bounce, and resolute and bold,

And ever first fair fighting to uphold;

Dauntless as honest, with unequalled game

He dar’d defeat, and fought his way to fame;

And burning still with pugilistic fire

Prov’d Young Dutch Sam was worthy of his sire.

Made of the same unyielding sort of stuff,

Ready at all times for the scratch and rough,

Delighting in the Ring at contest tough

And proudly scorning to sing out, ‘Enough!’

Ah! what avails it that in many a mill,

With pluck unflinching he was conqueror still;

With first rate science dealt the unerring blow

Which from the sneezer made the claret flow;

Perplex’d the box of knowledge with a crack,

And cloth’d the ogles with a suit of black;

Forward his foeman fiercely to assail,

And shower his body-blows as thick as hail?

Ah! what avails it? Dire disease at length

Blighted his laurels and subdued his strength,

Making his features pale with Death’s cold stamp,

While faint and feeble burnt life’s flickering lamp,

’Till, wasted, wan, and worn the pulses stopp’d.

The last sad scene was o’er, the curtain dropp’d.

But thou hast mark’d a course correct as clear,

By which the aspiring pugilist may steer.

Though fate decreed thou first shouldst breathe the air

Within the classic precincts of Rag Fair—

That region fam’d, as chronicles unfold,

Sacred to Sheenies and to garments old,

Owld coats, owld vests, to tempt the gazer’s view,

And tiles drest up to look as good as new;

But though in scenes like these Young Sam was nurs’d,

The bonds that cramp’d his youth he proudly burst,

And with ambition fired, and milling glow,

From rolls retreated, and discarded dough;

Cut Rosemary Lane, its sorrows and its joys,

And left dead men to other bakers’ boys!

What though while he ran a printing-race

At Charley Baldwin’s crib in Chatham Place?

For though to duty never disinclined,

’Twas Caleb Baldwin’s deeds engross’d his mind;

The star of Westminster as tough, as bold,

Who cried Peccavi to Dutch Sam the old.

What though awhile, the public to amuse,

Through London’s streets he circulated news,

Doom’d for a time from East to West to trip,

And barter broadsheets for the ready tip?

‘By heaven!’ he cried, ‘to fighting fame I’ll soar,

And sporting journals I will vend no more,

Of adverse fate I’ll overleap the bar,

And follow to