O’er which sad memory fain would draw a veil,
And while unfading thy brave deeds shall bloom,
Consign thine errors with thee to the tomb!
Well may we weep for these degenerate days,
As a sad trophy to thy fame we raise,
And mourn, since boxing hath become a trade,
Its honour tarnished and its flowers decay’d!
No hardy Cribb now throws the gauntlet down,
Nor brave Tom Spring, of unalloyed renown;
No brawny Belcher now for victory strives,