And the glims of the green ones with gloom ’gan to fill,
When they saw how the gilding was gone from their pill.
And there lay the cove with his mouth open wide
But through it there came not the sounds that defied;
And those who have made him are wild on the turf,
That the swell they had raised should prove nothing but surf.
And the pugilist’s fancy is loud in her wail,
For fear that her man should be clapt into jail;
And the queer’d ones of Israel no blunt can afford,
To flash in the ring, since their swell has been floor’d.