Alone stood brave Sibthorpius,

A moment sternly stood,

Then, with his armour on his back,

He jumped into the flood.

XIV.

And in the nights of winter,

When the cold north winds blow, And sweepers from the pavement Are shovelling the snow; When the crusted port is opened, And the camphine lamp is lit, When dessert is on the table,

And around it bright guests sit.

XV.

When the gay and lively party
Roar at the PUPPET-SHOW,
And claret, sparkling like its jokes,
Right joyously doth flow.
When the good-man plays écarté,

And the young lads make a noise;
When the girls are working crochet,
And the children smashing toys.
XVI.

When the good-wife takes her workbox, And the grandame takes a nap.

When Radicals and Chartists

Grow lively at the tap.

With weeping and with laughter,

Still is the story told,

How well Sibthorpius kept the Bridge,

And how the mob were sold.

From The Puppet-Showman's Album.

The six points demanded by the Chartists in 1848, were: Universal Suffrage, Vote by Ballot, Annual Parliaments, Payment of the Members, the Abolition of the Property Qualification, and Equal Electoral Districts.

Forty years ago these proposals were considered terribly revolutionary, and when the leaders of the movementErnest Jones, Fergus O'Connor, Vincent and Stephensproposed to hold a mass meeting at Kennington, and march to Westminster, it was feared there would be a riot. Special constables were enrolled in large numbers, and strong measures were taken by the police, but little actual disturbance occurred. Colonel Sibthorp, a very eccentric M.P., was especially violent in his denunciations of the Chartists, but it need scarcely be said that the poem is entirely imaginary as to the fight at Westminster Bridge, and the part he took in it.

THE FIGHT FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP.

(As told by an ancient Gladiator to hts GreatGrandmother.)

BIG Heenan of Benicia,

By ninety-nine gods he swore, That the bright belt of England Should grace her sons no more.

By ninety-nine he swore it,

And named the 'fisting' day

'East and west and south and north,'

Said Richard Mayne, ride forth, ride forth, 'And summon mine array.'

'Ride forth by heathy Hampshire,
Of "chalk-stream-studded" dells,
And wake the beaks of Eversley
Where gallant Kingsley dwells;
Spur fast thro' Berkshire spinneys,
The broad Hog's Back bestride,
And if the White Horse is scour'd
Mount up
amain and ride :

Spur, spur, I say, thro' England!
The word went flashing by.
Look out for Sayers and Heenan,
Policemen-mind your eye!

Sir Richard's bold moss-troopers
Looked out uncommon keen,
From park and plain and prairie,
From heath and upland green;
From Essex fens and fallows,

From Hampshire, dale and down,
From Sussex' hundred leagues of sand,
To Shropshire's fat and flowery land,
And Cheshire's wild and wasted strand,
And Yorkshire's heather brown ;-
And so, of course, the fight came off
A dozen miles from Town.

Then first stept out big Heenan,

Unmatched for breadth and length; And in his chest it might be guessed; He had unpleasant strength. And to him went the Sayers

That looked both small and thin, But well each practised eye could read The lion and the bull-dog' breed, And from each fearless stander-by Rang out that genuine British cry, 'Go in, my boy,—and win!'

And he went in-and smote him

Through mouthpiece and through cheek;
And Heenan smote him back again
Into the ensuing week:

Full seven days thence he smote him,
With one prodigious crack,

And th' undaunted Champion straight
Discerned that he was five feet eight,
When flat upon his back :-
Whilst a great shout of laughter
Rose from the Yankee pack.

As from the flash the bullet,

Out sprang the Sayers then,
And dealt the huge Benician

A vast thump on the chin;
And thrice and four times sternly
Drove in the shatt'ring blow;
And thrice and four times wavered
The herculean foe;

And his great arms swung wildly,
Like ship-masts two and fro.

And now no sound of laughter
Was heard from either side,
Whilst feint, and draw, and rally,
The cautious Bruisers tried;
And long they sparred and counter'd
Till Heenan sped a thrust

So fierce and quick, it swept away
'Th opposing guard like sapling spray-,
And for the second time that day

The Champion bit the dust.

Short time lay English Sayers

Upon the earth at length, Short time his Yankee foeman

Might triumph in his strength! Sheer from the ground he smote him And his soul went with the blowSuch blow no other hand could dashSuch blow no other arm could smashThe giant tottered low;

And for a space they sponged his face, And thought the eye would go.

Time's up!-Again they battle;

Again the strokes fly free;

But Sayers' right arm-that arm of pride— Now dangles pow'rless by his side,

Plain for all eyes to see;

And thro' that long and desperate shockTwo mortal hours on the clock

By sheer indomitable pluck

With his left hand fought he !

With his left hand he fought him,
Though he was sore in pain,—
Full twenty times hurled backward,
Still pressing on again!
With his left hand he fought him,

Till each could fight no more;

Till Sayers could scarcely strike a blow,
Till Heenan could not see his foe-
Such fighting England never knew
Upon her soil before!

They gave him of the standard
Gold coinage of the realm,
As much as one stout guardsman
Could carry in his helm ;
They made him an ovation

On the Exchange hard by,And they may slap their pockets In witness if I lie.

And every soul in England

Was glad, both high and low, And books were voted snobbish, And gloves' were all the go; And each man told the story,

Whilst ladies' hearts would melt, How Sayers, the British Champion, Did battle for the belt.

Yet honour to the vanquished!

(If vanquished then he were) Let the harp strike a bolder string And the Bird of Freedom clap his wing For the fight so free and fair. And forge another girdle That shall belt as brave a breast As ever sailed to English shore

From the broad lands of the West.

And when some sterner battle

Shall shake along the line,

The Lion flag of Liberty

In Freedom's cause to shine,

To fence its ancient honour,

And guard it safe from harms,

May two such Champions hand in hand— Twin brethren of the Saxon land

Be found together to withstand A universe in arms.

H. CHOLMONDeley-Pennell.

This excellent parody has appeared in numerous editions of Puck on Pegasus (published by Chatto and Windus, London), it is here given by special permission, and with corrections and additions recently made by the author.

The desperate fight it describes took place at Farnborough on April 17, 1860. Tom Sayers, the Champion of England, stood only about 5 feet 8 inches high, whilst John Heenan, the "Benicia Boy" was upwards of 6 feet in height. Both men showed great courage and endurance, but Sayers displayed the most science, and had not the fight been interrupted, he would, in all probability, have been victorious, as Heenan's eyes were fast closing up from the punishment he had received. As the fight was a draw, a silver belt was afterwards presented to each of the men. Punch also had a very long parody on the subject, from which a few verses may be quoted.

THE FIGHT OF SAYERIUS AND HEENANUS.

A Lay of Ancient London.

(Supposed to be recounted to his Great Grand-Children, April 17th, A.D. 1920, by an Ancient Gladiator.)

CLOSE round my chair, my children,

And gather at my knee,

The while your mother poureth
The Old Tom in my tea;
The while your father quaffeth
His rot-gut Bordeaux wine,-
'Twas not on such potations

Were reared these thews o' mine.
Such drinks came in the very year
-Methinks I mind it well-

That the great fight of HEENANUS
With SAYERIUS befell.
These knuckles then were iron;

This biceps like a cord;
This fist shot from the shoulder
A bullock would have floored.
Crawleius his Novice,

They used to call me then,
In the Domus Savilliana,
Among the sporting men.
There, on benefit occasions,
The gloves I oft put on,
Walking round to show my muscles
When the set-to was done;
While ringing in the arena
The showered denarii fell,
That told Crawleius, Novice
Had used his mauleys well.
'Tis but some sixty years since
The times whereof I speak,
And yet the words I'm using

Will sound to you like Greek.

What know ye, race of milksops,
Untaught of the P. R.,

What stopping, lunging, countering,
Fibbing, or rallying are?
What boots to use the lingo,

When you have not the thing?
How paint to you the glories

Of BELCHER, CRIBB, or SPRING,—

To you, whose sire turns up his eyes
At mention of the Ring?

Yet, in despite of all the jaw

And gammon of the time,

That brands the art of self-defence
-Old England's art—as crime,
From off mine ancient memories
The rust of time I'll shake,
Your youthful bloods to quicken

And your British pluck to wake.
Then gather to your grandsire's knee,
The while his tale is told,
How SAYERIUS and HEENANUS
Milled in the days of old.

The stakes are pitched, the ropes are tied,
The men have ta'en their stand;
HEENANUS wins the toss for place,
And takes the eastward hand.
CUSICCIUS and MACDONALDUS
Upon the Boy attend ;
SAYERIUS Owns BRUNTONUS,
And JIM WELSHIUS for friend.
And each upon the other now,
A curious eye may throw,

As from the seconds' final rub

In buff at length they show,
And from their corners to the scratch
Move stalwartly and slow.

Then each his hand stretched forth to grasp,
His foemen's fives in friendly clasp ;
Each felt his balance trim and true,-
Each up to square his mauleys threw ;
Each tried his best to draw his man-
The feint, the dodge, the opening plan,
Till left and right SAYERIUS tried;
HEENANUS' grin proclaimed him wide;
He shook his nut, a lead essayed,
Nor reached SAYERIUS' watchful head.
At length each left is sudden flung,

We heard the ponderous thud,

And from each tongue the news was rung,
SAYERIUS hath First blood!"

Adown HEENANUS' Roman nose
Freely the tell-tale claret flows,
While stern SAYERIUS' forehead shows
That in the interchange of blows
HEENANUS' aim was good!

Again each iron mauley swung,
And loud the counter-hitting rung,
Till breathless all and wild with blows,
Fiercely they grappled for a close;
A moment in close hug they swing
Hither and thither, round the ring,
Then from HEENANUS' clinch of brass
SAYERIUS, smiling, slips to grass!

I trow mine ancient breath would fail
To follow through the fight,
Each gallant round's still changing tale,
Each feat of left and right.
How nine times in that desperate Mill
HEENANUS in his strength,
Knocked stout SAYERIUS off his pins,
And laid him all at length;

But how in each succeeding round
SAYERIUS Smiling came,

With head as cool, and wind as sound,

As his first moment on the ground,
Still confident, and game.
How from HEENANUS' sledge-like fist,
Striving a smasher to resist,

SAYERIUS' stout right arm gave way,
Yet the maim'd hero still made play,
And when in-fighting threatened ill,
Was nimble in out-fighting still,

Did still his own maintain-
In mourning put HEENANUS' glims,
Till blinded eyes and helpless limbs,
The chances squared again.
How blind HEENANUS in despite
Of bleeding mug and waning sight
So gallantly kept up the fight,

That not a man could say
Which of the two 'twere wise to back,
Or on which side some random crack
Might not decide the day:

And leave us-whoso won the prize,— Victor and vanquished, in all eyes,

An equal meed to pay.

Two hours and more the fight had sped,
Near unto ten it drew,

But still opposed-one-armed to blind, -
They stood, the dauntless two.
Ah, me, that I have lived to hear
Such men as ruffians scorned,
Such deeds of valour brutal called,
Canted, preached down and mourned !
Ah, that these old eyes ne'er again
A gallant Mill shall see!

No more behold the ropes and stakes,
With colours flying free!
But I forget the combat-

How shall I tell the close,
That left the Champion's Belt in doubt
Between those well-matched foes?
Fain would I shroud the tale in night,—
The meddling blues that thrust in sight,—
The ring-keepers o'erthrown ;—
The broken ring, -the cumbered fight,-
HEENANUS' sudden, blinded flight,-
SAYERIUS pausing, as he might,
Just when ten minutes used aright
Had made the fight his own!

And be Lord Mayor once more.

By Gog and Magog swore it,
And named the polling day,
And bade the Liverymen go forth

To all the wards, East, West, and North,
To summon his array.

I see the long type galleys,
I see the molten lead,

I see the wondrous matrix

The bright type leaves its bed. He casts the grim black-letter, For battle he is ripe,

Thus ever rides our Besley,

Lord of the Founts of Type.

Now hath each polling district
Sent up her tale of men,
And Besley counts by hundreds,
And Lawrence scarcely ten.

But a mighty boast he uttered

"Right soon the Queen shall ride

To Blackfriars Bridge, and where looks down

The viaduct o'er London town,

And Lawrence by her side.'

The harvest of the title,

This year shall Lawrence reap; This year the London urchins

At Queen Victoria peep.

This year the crowds shall gather
To London, like the foam

That gathers on the Tiber

That rolls beside old Rome.

And now the warfare's over,

And who shall say who's won, Our Besley rules the Aldermen, The civic fight is done.

But Lawrence, cool and cunning,

No shock of war would stand,

He yields the power, but wins the prize;
Henceforth, before the nation's eyes,
He wears the Bloody Hand!

And in the nights of winter
When many a bottle's floor'd,
And gormandizing aldermen
Gloat o'er the groaning board,
Between the punch and turtle,
The tale they still shall tell :
How Lawrence jockey'd Besley-
How Gladstone managed well.

Full rapidly yet surely,

The Midland train runs fast, Until the town of potteries

Is safely gained at last! Woe to the vile traducer Who treats it as a joke, For Qucealy the avenger

Is on the march for Stoke.

There be many whom the franchise
Makes voters in the land,
Who always by the public house,
Both morn and evening stand.
Evening and morn they linger
About the open door;
While each man's little finger
Is lifted o'er and o'er.

And with one voice the voters Have their glad answers given "Go forth, go forth, Qucealy ! Go forth, beloved of Heaven." Cr, in the plain vernacular

Of these simple men of Stoke, "We'll stick to you, Qucealy! Go in and win, old bloke !"

I wis in all the Commons,
When came the Doctor's night,
There was not e'en a vacant seat
For none would miss the sight.
Forthwith uprose the Premier,
Uprose the Members all:
Full speedily they seized their hats,
And hied them to the hall.

The Doctor's brow is knit,

And the Doctor's speech is low, And frequently is heard "Ha, ha !'' And now and then "Oh, oh!" But he flings aside their taunts,

As when bounding o'er the plain, The lion shakes the dewdrops From off his tawny mane.

"Ye honorable members
Jeer on as best ye may;
But I with two to help me
Will keep you all at bay.
A Jesuitical device

May well be checked by three :
Now who will stand on either hand
To crush conspiracy?"

Then out spake valiant Whalley,
From Peterborough he,

"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And give my voice with thee.

And outspake bould O'Gorman,
Of Celtic blood was he,

"Whack philliloo! I'm wid you too. Acushla gra machree!"

The speeches now are ended,
And lo! the ranks divide,
And outsteps brave O'Gorman,
With elephantine stride.

And many fear what he may say,
And at the thought grow pale!
"Is there any of yiz here would like
To trid upon my tale ?"