Page:Saturday night.pdf/20

 Tom was quite a good fellow, nor quarrell'd in ale,

But if challeng'd in earnest, would never turn tail

So he jumps him up quickly, and soon with a blow

Laid the carpenter John where himself had laid low.

Fair, fair, cried the neighbours, let's make a good ring

Let them fight it out stoutly, 'twill be just the thing;

So at him, good fellow, was echoed all round,

And they stript 'em, and clapt 'em, and measur'd the ground.

Now strike him, friend John, like a nail on the head,

Now froth him at top, Tom; his own party said:

That's right, hit him hard, there just over the scull,

He'll spin out like a barrel unhoop'd, he's so full.

Like nine-pins the tumbl'd and roll in the mud,

Their bodies all bruises, their faces all blood,

Till a dext'rous aim'd blow of Tom Toper's at last,

His friend John on the temple, and settl'd him fast.

Down he slump'd like a wool-sack, or lump of pig lead,

Unsens'd in a moment, 'twas thought he was dead;

The women all scream'd the men cried give him air,

Box'd each other, and quarrell'd, to prove it all fair.