How Warren triumphed o’er his foes,
How Thwackum fought and fell,
And how, despite his cartel, Day
Hied him, like recreant, from the fray.
’Tis done—the victors all are gone,
And fitfully the sun shines down
On many a bruised and burly clown,
The flower of whose sweet youth is mown,
To blossom ne’er again;
For e’en as grass cut down is hay,