That I couldn’t be he, it was plain to discern,
Wot floor’d Carter and Crawley, O’Connell and Byrne.
They vow of their bets upon me they’ve been robb’d,
That I show’d no good point, but stood still to be jobb’d,
That no punishment sharp was produced by my blows,
And Bendy did with me whatever he chose.
Hard words for the Deaf’un, and cruel the sting,
To one who ne’er acted amiss in the Ring—
To him who was always alive to a mill,
And in thirteen prize-battles was conqueror still.