How many a gallant miller, tried and tough,
As victor hail’d him, crying, ‘Hold, enough!’
How from his lips this language oft hath dropp’d,
‘I bears no malice to the man I’ve whopp’d!’
But his last fight is fought—the Champion grim,
To whom we all must yield, hath vanquish’d him
His allies sure—pale sickness, max, and age—
Have fairly driven old Scroggins off the stage;
Stretch’d the tough veteran on his lowly bier,
With none to comfort, and with nought to cheer.