THE COCK-PIT. __ The barbarian-like amusement of seeing two animals,
instinctively destroy each other, certainly affords sufficient scope for the
pen of the Satirist; the author thought, he could not do it more effectually
than by giving a picture of the COCK-PIT, and describing a few
of the characters, who, generally, may be seen at such glorious contests. “THE great, the important
hour is come”, O HOPE! thou
wily nurse! I see bad-luck behind thy back, Dark, brooding deep remorse. No fancied muse will I invoke, To grace my humble strain, But sing my song in homely
phrase, Inspir’d by what I’ve seen. Here comes a feeder with his charge, ’Mong friends ’tis whisper’d straight, How long he swung him on a string, To bring him to his weight. * The carpet’s laid--Pit-money
drawn-- All’s high with expectation; With birds bereft of nature’s garb, The handlers tak’ their station. What roaring, betting, bawling,
swearing, Now assail the ear! *When a feeder has unluckily
fed his bird above the stipulated
weight, recourse is had to the ludicrious expedient of making poor chanticleer
commence rope-dancer; being tied on the rope, he flutters, and through fear
evacuates part of his preponderancy. When this happens to be the case, the knowing ones who are up to it, will not bet so freely on his prowess, as the
operation is supposed to have weaken’d him. “Three Pound!”--four Pound, on Ph-ll-p’s COCK!” --“Done!--Done, by G-d Sir!--here!” Now cast a serious eye around-- Behold the motley group, All gamblers, swindlers,
ragamuffins, Vot’ries of the STOUP. But why of it thus lightly speak? The poor man’s ae best frien’-- When fortune’s sky lowrs dark
an’ grim, It clears the drumly scene. Here sits a wretch with meagre face, And sullen drousy eye; Nor speaks he much--last night at cards A gamster drain’d him dry. Here bawls another ven’trous soul, Who risks his every farthing; What d--l’s the matter though at home, His wife an’ brats are starving. See here’s a father ’gainst a
son, A brither ’gainst a brither, Wha’, e’en wi’
mair than common spite, Bark hard at ane anither. But see yon fellow all in black, He looks speak inward joy; Mad happy since his father’s
death, Sporting his LEGACY.-- And, mark— this aged Debauchee, With
red bepimpl’d face-- He fain would bet a crown or two, But
purse is not in case. But hark!—what cry,—“He’s run!—he’s run!”-- And
loud huzzas take place-- Now mark, what deep dejection sits, On every loser’s face. Observe the OWNER—frantic
man, With
imprecations dread, He grasps his vanquish’d Idol-god, And twirls off his head. But, bliss attend their feeling souls, What
nae sic deeds delight in! Brutes are but brutes, let men be men, Nor
pleasure in COCK-FIGHTING. |