A POEM, IN PRAISE OF THE Fighting-Cock. |
By the Author of this Treatise. O Of all the numerous Feathered Flock Which Jove Created, the brave Fighting-Cock Contains within his truly generous Breast, By much, a Nobler Courage than the rest. When first he spies the Bloody trampled Pit, He claps his Wings, and Crows for Joy to see’t: And when set down, he proudly struts along, Careless, and unconcern’d at the great Throng; Who Shouting clap their Hands to see him go So eagerly to meet his threatening Foe; Whose lofty Crimson Front when first he spies, He like the Bazilick thro’ his swoln Eyes Darts Flames of Fury, Death, Revenge, & Spight, And thus enrag’d begins the Bloody Fight. Then on they fall, and like two Dragons meet, Rending the Air both with their Wings and Feet, Untill at length grown mad, they cease to Ward, And desperately closing scorn their Guard. Then, like to Thunder, fall their dreadful Stroaks, And as that slives the strong and mighty Oaks, So their fierce whirling Blows sharply rush thro’ The tender Flesh, and slive the Bones in two. Whilst from their gaping Wounds there streams a flood Which like a Deluge drowns the Pit with Blood: The wounded Warriors reeling to, and fro’, At length grow Faint, and stagger at each Blow: But bravely still maintain the doubtful fight, Altho’ the one want Limbs, the other Sight: ’Till faithless Fortune with a fatal Frown, Sends giddy Chance to pull the destin’d down. Whilst cruel Death in Crimson Colours meets The mangled Carcass, and in Purple Sheets, Presents him strait before the Victor dead; Who views him stretcht upon his Bloody Bed, And hears the Crowd with Shouts Ring his last Peal, Which mournful Eccho Chimes his dying Knell: And Praises pierce the Skies from the vast Throng, Who shout the Victor as he Rides along.
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