“Thwackum, press on—ne’er mind your scars,
Press on—they yield—and oh, my stars!
Each nose is bleeding fast;
Strike, strike,—their skulls like walnuts cracking
For Day, for Martin, and his blacking,
The battle cannot last.”
Vain charge! the Warren dauntless stood,
Though ankle deep flowed seas of blood,
Till Thwackum fierce towards him flies,
His breast with choler glows,