So flesh when drubbed to death, is clay,
As proved each hind who slept that day
On Brentford’s crimson plain.
Sad was the sight, for Warren’s squad
Bravely lay sprawling on the sod;
They scorned to turn their tails,—for why?
They had no tails to turn awry,
So dropped each where he stood.
First Ned of Greenwich kissed the ground,
Then Figgins from Whitechapel pound,