Wich I've cheridged and cracked you up constant, and backed you in all of your fights.
And I've swore it was you, right as rain, as would do the Grand Ould 'Un to rights!
But he's turned up more younger than ever—O drabbit him; 'ow he do wear!—
I thought he'd be knocked out at once, the fust round, and he ain't turned a hair!
He hits hard and fast as the "Tinman," he's nimble as poor "Young Ducrow."
And now this round's over, where are we? I'm jiggered, dear boy, if I know!
Look at 'im! As perky as pickles! Weaves in like a young 'un, he do,
Jest as limber of limb as a kitten; pops in that perdigious one—two,
Like a new Eighty-tonner. Good gracious, the wetterun's all over the shop!
He can mill you, or throw you a burster; feint, parry, duck, counter, or stop!