A Copy of Verses Writ upon a COCK-MATCH.

The Clock has struck four, let’s hasten away And five hunder’d or more as I hear say; Are gon to the Pitt, to see Dragon Fight, With Tom of Ten Thousands, Tabering White. And now the Red Pile, that kills at a Hol’t; He Fights with Barr-Dun, that won the Baye Colt. And York-shire Gray; which at Newmarket Fought, And won the two Guinnies laid to a Groat; Must Fight with Old Cuckoo this afternoon, And kills him out right, I hold you a Crown. Now, now they come in, what odds of the Match, Dragon he’s Wounded, the very first Touch. Ten Guinnies to Five, well Fought little White; Dragon’s choak’d his choa’d and quite of his Fight, Come twenty Guinnies to two for a Bett, I hold any Mony sett Feeder sett. Hold, hold stand off he fights, what odds—E’gad. A-ho-Dragon has pind him though the Head. Come, come my Lord, the Guinnies thirty two And sixteen more Sir John, I claim of You. These were rare Cocks indeed, what odds o’th next Pile for a Piece, yet if Barr Dunn be vext; And come to Fight in blood a holt or two All’s up, for then he’ll strike him through, and through. There have at all they Fight it rarely well; Which has the odds? Egad no one can tell. Come Gold to Silver, I am for the Dun, Pox of ill Luck, all’s up, the Pile has won; And but in time, for he has lost an Eye; And bleeds so fast, he cannot chuse but Dye. Well, Captain come the next, what odds of these Ten pound of Either Side, take which you please, I’ll be for the New market Gray, ’tis don. And I am for the Cuckoo, cause he’ll run; What run away? no, no Sir, only Shift, Duggle, and dowke, turn to the right, and left. You know Sir, how, yes I know what you mean; But what if after all, your Dugler’s Slain, I’ll venture that, and bett you Ten Pound more: ’Tis done my Lord, I hold you Six, to Four. I take it. Cuckoo Fights it rarely well So there Lad, there, the Gray begins to swell. Well he’s a rare Revenging Cock indeed And Spight of Fate he makes the Cuckoo Bleed, See how he Storms the Subtile headed Thief; Yet after all he’ll run him out o’ns Life. No, no, the Cuckoo sinks, his race is run, The Battle’s Ended and the Gray has Won. And now they Shoutings rise, and march away, Each takes his Bottle, and so Ends the Day.