Page:The green helmet and other poems.pdf/82

 It was all mere luck at the best.

But Conall, I say—

Let me speak.

You'd be dumb if the cock of the yard would but open his beak.

Before your cock was born, my master was in the fight.

Go home and praise your grand-dad. They took to the horns for spite, For I said that no cock of your sort had been born since the fight began.