And my stick I will cut in the Prize Ring, by Jove!
Ere the belt shall be worn by a Nottingham cove.
And shall poor Deaf Burke be consign’d to the shade?
No, tho’ I’m defeated I am not dismay’d,
And in a fresh contest I’ll do what I can,
To take the conceit from this bounceable man.
When victory smiles on a pugilist’s front,
He has lots of supporters and plenty of blunt;
But if luck turns against him, my eyes! how they rave,
And stamp him a cross cove—a thundering knave!