The Prize Fight

"I am a boxer, who does not inflict blows on the air, but I hit hard and straight at my own body." -- 1 Cor. ix. 26 (WEYMOUTH'S Translation).

'T'was breakfast time, and outside in the street
The factory men went by with hurrying feet.
And on the bridge, in dim December light,
The newsboys shouted of the great prize fight.
Then, as I dished the bacon, and served out
The porridge, all our youngsters gave a shout.
The letter-box had clicked, and through the din
The Picture News was suddenly pushed in.

John showed the lads the pictures, and explained
Just how the fight took place, and what was gained
By that slim winner. Then, he looked at me
As I sat, busy, pouring out the tea:
"Your mother is a boxer, rightly styled.
She hits the air sometimes, though," and John smiled.
"Yet she fights on." Young Jack, with widened eyes
Said: "Dad, how soon will mother get a prize?"

We laughed. And yet it set me thinking, how
I beat the air, because a neighbour's cow
Munched at our early cabbages, and ate
The lettuce up, and tramped my mignonette!
And many a time I kicked against the pricks
Because the little dog at number six
Disturbed my rest. And then, how cross I got
When Jane seemed discontented with her lot.
Until poor John in desperation said
He wearied of the theme -- and went to bed!

And how I vexed myself that day, when he
Brought people unexpectedly for tea,
Because the table-cloth was old and stained,
And not a single piece of cake remained.
And how my poor head ached! Because, well there!
It uses lots of strength to beat the air!

"I am a boxer!" Here and now I pray
For grace to hit the self-life every day.
And when the old annoyance comes once more
And the old temper rises sharp and sore,
I shall hit hard and straight, O Tender-Wise,
And read approval in Thy loving eyes.

Fay Inchfawn

Fay Inchfawn was the pen name of Elizabeth Rebecca Ward, a prolific British author and poet born in 1880. She published a variety of works, including poetry, essays, and books on homemaking, and was known for her cheerful, optimistic writing style. Her works often focused on domestic life and faith, resonating particularly with female readers in the early to mid-20th century. Beyond her literary output, little is widely known about her personal life. Fay Inchfawn passed away in 1978.

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The Cock-Fighters Garland.[1]

Musehide his name of whom I sing,
Lest his surviving house thou bring
For his sake into scorn,
Nor speak the school from which he drew
The much or little that he knew,
Nor place where he was born.


That such a man once was, may seem
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In social talk and ready jest,
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Ive something of the bull-dog in my breed,
The spaniel is developed somewhat less;
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You mention It was meant to do me good.
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How many a resolution to amend
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Such a sensation Sunday's preacher made.
"Christian!" he cried, "what is your stock- in-trade?
Alas! Too often nil. No time to pray;
No interview with Christ from day to day,
A hurried prayer, maybe, just gabbled through;
A random text -- for any one will do."
Then gently, lovingly, with look intense,
He leaned towards us --
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No person in his rightful mind will try
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I heard it all; and something inly said
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Saltbush Bill's Second Fight

The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large,
That twenty thousand traveling sheep, with Saltbush Bill in charge,
Were drifting down from a dried-out run to ravage the Castlereagh;
And the squatters swore when they heard the news, and wished they were well away:
For the name and the fame of Saltbush Bill were over the country-side
For the wonderful way that he fed his sheep, and the dodges and tricks he tried.
He would lose his way on a Main Stock Route, and stray to the squatters' grass;
He would come to a run with the boss away, and swear he had leave to pass;
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Dear Judy, I sind you this bit of a letther,
By mail-coach conveyance--for want of a betther--
To tell you what luck in this world I have had
Since I left the sweet cabin, at Mullinafad.
Och, Judy, that night!--when the pig which we meant
To dry-nurse in the parlor, to pay off the rent,
Julianna, the craythur--that name was the death of her--^[1]
Gave us the shlip and we saw the last breath of her!
And there were the childher, six innocent sowls,
For their nate little play-fellow turning up howls;
While yourself, my dear Judy (tho' grievin's a folly),
Stud over Julianna's remains, melancholy--
Cryin', half for the craythur and half for the money,
"Arrah, why did ye die till we'd sowled you, my honey?"

But God's will be done!--and then, faith, sure...

Thomas Moore