The "Slugging"-Match.

        "A first-class professional fight!"
            I'm really doing the town!
        There were thousands on thousands to-night
            To see a man knock a man down.
        Two dollars I willingly (?) paid
            To view all this muscle and brawn;
        'Twas rather too much, I'm afraid,
            Or seemed so, the minute 'twas gone.

                    *            *            *            *            *

        And yet 'tis a study to see
            The rage gladiatorial of Rome
        And grim Spanish bull-baiting glee
            Adopt an American home!
        That blood-thirsty, murderous spite
            Men loudly condemn - and possess!
        Besieged New York City last night,
            With first-class financial success!

                    *            *            *            *            *

        Hands gloved - to comply with the law;
            Gloves hard - to comply with the crowd;
        Fists savage as murder could draw;
            Cheers heavy and fervent and loud.
        Stern hisses, and shoutings of "Woman!"
            When either too tender they found;
        Tremendous applause when a foeman
            Dropped, more than half dead, on the ground.

                    *            *            *            *            *

        'Twas the soul's blackest hell-woven fibre,
            All thrilling intensely and fast;
        The curse of the Tagus and Tiber
            Arrived in New York Bay at last!
        And victor and vanquished, I learn,
            Came off with more glittering spoil
        Than teacher or preacher could earn
            In years of the hardest of toil.

                    *            *            *            *            *

        A spectacle pleasing and bright,
            Full many good people delighting -
        So many good men love a fight,
            When somebody else does the fighting!
        And "'tis shameful!" we mildly agree,
            And shout our complainings afar;
        But the facts are no worse than are we:
            They show to us just what we are!

William McKendree Carleton

William McKendree Carleton, commonly known as Will Carleton, was an American poet from Michigan. He gained significant recognition for his work that depicted rural life, with some of his most famous pieces including 'Over the Hill to the Poorhouse' and 'Betsy and I Are Out'. His writings often focused on social issues and the hardships faced by ordinary people. Carleton's style was straightforward, and he was well-known for his ability to capture the essence of American rural life in the 19th century.

William McKendree Carleton

Uncle Sammy.

William McKendree Carleton, Simple Poetry

Apples Growing.

William McKendree Carleton, Simple Poetry

The March Of The Children.

William McKendree Carleton, Simple Poetry

English

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A Street Fight. (To Mr F - - .) {38}

Sir, we approve your curling lip and nose
    At this vile sight.
These men, these women are brute beasts? - Who knows,
    Sir, but that you are right?

Panders and harlots, rogues and thieves and worse,
    We are a crew
Whose pitiful plunder's honoured in the purse
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Whom holy Competition's taught (like us)
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With Brutus In St. Jo

Of all the opry-houses then obtaining in the West
The one which Milton Tootle owned was, by all odds, the best;
Milt, being rich, was much too proud to run the thing alone,
So he hired an "acting manager," a gruff old man named Krone--
A stern, commanding man with piercing eyes and flowing beard,
And his voice assumed a thunderous tone when Jack and I appeared;
He said that Julius Caesar had been billed a week or so,
And would have to have some armies by the time he reached St. Jo!

O happy days, when Tragedy still winged an upward flight,
When actors wore tin helmets and cambric robes at night!
O happy days, when sounded in the public's rapturous ears
The creak of pasteboard armor and the clash of wooden spears!
O happy times for Jack and me and that one other supe
Tha...

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Battered Bob

He was working on a station in the Western when I knew him,
And he came from Conongamo, up the old surveyors track,
And the fellows all admitted that no man in Vic. could do him,
Since hed smothered Stonewall Menzie, also Anderson, the black.
Bob was modelled for a fighter, but hed run to beef a trifle;
For his science every rouseabout was satisfied to vouch,
And Red Fogarty advised us he delivered like a rifle,
And his stopping,well, beside him Harry Sallars was a slouch.

Not a man of us had met him till he settled on the station,
This was early in the Sixties, what we call the good old days,
And its cheerfully admitted Robert owed his reputation
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How We Fought The Fire.

I.

        'Twas a drowsy night on Tompkins Hill:
        The very leaves of the trees lay still;
        The world was slumbering, ocean deep;
        And even the stars seemed half asleep,
        And winked and blinked at the roofs below,
        As yearning for morn, that they might go.
        The streets as stolid and still did lie
        As they would have done if streets could die;
        The sidewalks stretched as quietly prone
        As if a foot they had never known;
        And not a cottage within the town,
        But looked as if it would fain lie down.
        Away in the west a stacken-cloud,
        With white arms drooping and bare head bowed,
        Was leaning against - with drowsy eye -
        The dark blue velveting of the sky...

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Witchcraft: New Style

The sun drew off at last his piercing fires.
Over the stale warm air, dull as a pond
And moveless in the grey quieted street,
Blue magic of a summer evening glowed.
The sky, that had been dazzling stone all day,
Hollowed in smooth hard brightness, now dissolved
To infinite soft depth, and smoulder'd down
Low as the roofs, dark burning blue, and soared
Clear to that winking drop of liquid silver,
The first exquisite star. Now the half-light
Tidied away the dusty litter parching
Among the cobbles, veiled in the colour of distance
Shabby slates and brickwork mouldering, turn'd
The hunchback houses into patient things
Resting; and golden windows now began.

A little brisk grey slattern of a woman,
Pattering along in her loose-heel'd clogs,
Pushed the bra...

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A Friendly Game Of Football

We were challenged by The Dingoes , they're the pride of Squatter's Gap,
To a friendly game of football on the flat by Devil's Trap.
And we went along on horses, sworn to triumph in the game,
For the honour of Gyp's Diggings, and the glory of the same.

And we took the challenge with us. It was beautiful to see,
With its lovely curly letters, at its pretty filigree.
It was very gently worded, and it made us all feel good,
For it breathed the sweetest sentiments of peace and brotherhood.

We had Chang, and Trucker Hogan, and the man who licked The Plug,
Also Heggarty, and Hoolahan, and Peter Scott, the pug;
And we wore our knuckle-dusters, and we took a keg on tap
To our friendly game of football with The Dingoes at The Gap.

All the fellows came to meet us, and we ...

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