  Malachy, you stand a referee to judge Under a torrent of blue light The naked pugilists who fight, Grim faces with a smudge Of blood, or on the sliding arms or backs, There on a platform roped, in palls Of smoke to the roof of Tattersall’s, And where the iterant cracks Of matches struck for lights prick through the hum Of voices over toned by cries Of “Finish him,” “Look at his glassy eyes,” “That sounded like a drum.” When the timekeeper’s gong went clang! clang! And a hush came over us, as then Bath robes slipped off, the fighting men Out of their corners sprang, And in between the tangled arms and legs, And clinches which you break, you glide Red-haired, athletic, watchful eyed, And like a lager ke Coatless, a figure memorable. You should not be forgotten—well And if it be to dare The censure of a taste American To celebrate your courage, wit, I write you down what here is writ: A referee, a man! A judge who loved the game and whose decree Had no taint on it, was more pure Than much of our judicature, Of every knavery free. And what is here to shock or shake such nerves As children’s are, delicate women’s? There goes the short hook of Fitzsimmons, And Thorne a moment swerves, Then topples over, and lies quiet while You count from one slowly to nine. And Thorne lies there without a sign Of life, but with a smile After a time gets up, and reels across The ring to his own corner, there Flops wobbly in his corner’s chair, And wonders at his loss. While full ten thousand cheer, and watch you shake The master hand, the general’s. Such was our sport at Tattersall’s Before the Puritan rake Combed through the city. Now the sport is dead, And you are dust these several years. And we who drift to stale careers, And live along and tread The old deserted ways we loved and knew, Ask sometimes how it was a cough Could seize upon you, take you off— A lad as strong as you? |
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