And the shouts of his backers rolled on in their pride.
The swells of the Ring and the stars of the Turf
Surged round like the waves of the storm-beaten surf.
And there lay the "Blower," distorted and pale,
With the blood on his brow where the blows fell like hail.
His backers were silent, he lay there alone,
His mawleys unlifted, his trumpet unblown.
And the "Sports" of the South are all loud in their wail.
But Punch, who hates bullying brutes, can but hail
That smart Californian's pluck, skill, and strength,