Nor tough Game Chicken flourishes his fives;
No Molyneux now rears his sable nob,
Nor rough-and-ready stout White-headed Bob.
Well may we grieve, as we thy fate deplore,
The golden days of milling are no more,
Exclaiming, as fresh candidates appear,
“Oh, what a woeful falling-off is here!”
But Curtis prov’d a trump, and no mistake, }
To every move upon the board awake, }
And staunch as e’er tied colours to a stake! }