’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 dresht up to look as goot as new;