Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, EXTEMPORE VERSES ON A TRIAL OF SKILL BETWEEN MSSRS. FIGG AND SUTTON, by JOHN BYROM



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EXTEMPORE VERSES ON A TRIAL OF SKILL BETWEEN MSSRS. FIGG AND SUTTON, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Long was the great figg by the prize-fighting swains
Last Line: Who scorn'd any fence but a jolly abdomen?
Subject(s): Figg, James (1694-1734); Fights; Sutton, Ned


LONG was the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains,
Sole monarch acknowledg'd of Mary-bone plains;
To the towns far and near did his valour extend,
And swam down the river from Thame to Gravesend,
Where liv'd Master Sutton, pipe-maker by trade,
Who hearing that Figg was thought such a stout blade,
Resolv'd to put in for a share of his fame,
And so sent to challenge the champion of Thame.

With alternate advantage two trials had pass'd,
When they fought out the rubbers on Wednesday last.
To see such a contest the house was so full,
There hardly was room left to thrust in your skull.
With a prelude of cudgels we first were saluted,
And two or three shoulders most handsomely fluted;
Till wearied at last with inferior disasters,
All the company cried, "Come! the masters! the masters!"

Whereupon the bold Sutton first mounted the stage,
Made his honours, as usual, and yearn'd to engage;
Then Figg with a visage so fierce and sedate,
Came and enter'd the list with his fresh-shaven pate.
Their arms were encircled by armigers two,
With a red ribbon Sutton's, and Figg's with a blue;
Thus adorn'd the two heroes 'twixt shoulder and elbow,
On commencing shook hands, and the watch-word was "Bilbo."

Sure such a concern in the eyes of spectators
Was never yet seen in our amphitheatres;
Our Commons and Peers, from their several places,
To half an inch distance all pointed their faces;
While the rays of old Phœbus that shot through the sky-light,
Seem'd to make on the stage a new kind of twilight;
And the Gods, without doubt, if one could but have seen 'em,
Were peeping there thro' to do justice between 'em.

Figg struck the first stroke, and with such a vast fury,
That he broke his huge weapon in twain, I assure ye;
And if his brave rival this blow had not warded,
His head from his shoulders had quite been discarded.
Figg again arm'd himself, they took t'other tilt,
And then Sutton's blade ran away from its hilt.
The weapons were frighted, but as for the men,
In truth they ne'er minded, but at it again.

Such a force in their blows, you'd have thought it a wonder
Ev'ry stroke they receiv'd did not cleave them asunder;
Yet so great was their courage, so equal their skill,
That they both seem'd as safe as a thief in a mill:
While in doubtful attention dame Victory stood,
And which side to take could not tell for her blood,
But remain'd without moving an inch either way,
Like the ass in the tale 'twixt two bottles of hay:

Till Jove to the Gods signified his intention,
In a speech that he made them, too tedious to mention;
The upshot of it was, that, at that very bout,
From a wound in Figg's side the hot blood spouted out.
Her Ladyship then seem'd to think the case plain;
But Figg stepping forth, with sullen disdain,
Shew'd the gash, and appeal'd to the company round,
If his own broken sword had not giv'n him the wound.

That bruises and wounds a man's spirit should touch
With danger so little, with honour so much!
Well, they both took a dram, return'd to the battle,
And with a fresh fury they made the swords rattle;
While Sutton's right arm was observed to bleed
By a 'touch from his rival, so Jove had decreed;
Enough just to shew that his blood was not Icor,
But made up, like Figg's, of the common red liquor.

Again they both rush'd with so equal a fire on,
That the company cried,—"Hold! enough of cold iron!
"To the Quarter Staff now, lads!"———So first having dramm'd it,
They took to their wood, and i' faith never sham'd it.
The first bout they had was so fair and so handsome,
That to make a fair bargain 'twas worth a king's ransom;
And Sutton such bangs to his neighbour imparted,
Would have made any fibres but Figg's to have smarted.

Then after that bout they went on to another;
But the matter must end in some way or other;
So Jove told the Gods he had made a decree,
That Figg should hit Sutton a stroke on the knee.
Though Sutton, disabled as soon as he hit him,
Would still have fought on, but Jove would not permit him.
'Twas his fate not his fault, that made him to yield;
And thus the great Figg became Lord of the field.

Now after such men, who can bear to be told
Of your Roman and Greek puny heroes of old?
To compare such poor dogs as Alcides and Theseus
To Sutton and Figg would be very facetious.
Were great Hector himself, with Apollo to back him,
To encounter with Sutton, how well he would thwack him!
Or Achilles, tho' old mother Thetis had dipp'd him,
With Figg,—how grandly would our brave man have unripp'd him.

To Cæsar and Pompey, for want of things juster,
We compare these brave boys, but 'twill never pass muster.
Did those mighty fellows e'er fight hand to fist once?
No, I thank you, they kept at a laudable distance.
What is Pompey the Great, with his armour begirt,
To the much greater Sutton who fought in his shirt;
Or is Figg to be pair'd with a cap-a-pee Roman,
Who scorn'd any fence but a jolly abdomen?





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