A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.)/A "Samaritan" Ode
A "Samaritan" Ode,
Addressed to everybody.
["We regret to learn that poor old Tom Cribb is extremely ill at the house of his son, at Woolwioh."—Vide Bell's Life, Jan. 30, 1848.]
Go, gaze on the Champion! look at him now,
With that pale sunken cheek, and the damp on his brow;
Compare what he was with what now meets your view—
It'll show what "old age" and long illness can do.
Where now is the "giant-like" power of his arm,
That fill'd all the men of his day with alarm?
Where, where is the muscle that gave that arm strength
To make the huge Molineux measure his length?
All, all are departed; the spirit alone
Survives all his physical energies, gone.
There, beaten at last, lies the gamest and best
That ever the "fistic arena" possessed—
Tom Cribb (for 'tis you), there 's a charm in thy name,
If true British courage and unsullied fame
Be passport to old English sympathy—then
Not useless shall prove this appeal from my pen.
Neglect shall not chill, nor stem Want ever come,
With their withering effect, to the poor "old man's home."
Shall we suffer an honest, brave creature like this
One essential to need, or one comfort to miss?
No! with hands ever open, and hearts prone to feel.
All true men their shoulders will put to the wheel.
What is it among us? There are lots will be found,
Who, though not in position to fork out a pound,
Will loose with much pleasure a "bull," or a "bob,"
Or a "tizzy," for 'tis but just "bilking" the "gob,"
One glass or two less, or some frisk set aside;
Some little odd pleasure we think of, denied,
And there are at once all the funds we require
For doing an act which e'en angels admire.
So now, let's be "bricks," and at once set about it;
We can—and, remember, he can't—do without it.
Let each "cadge" a trifle, which by post let him send
To "Bell,".[1] who is ever the fighting man's friend.
'Tis an act the old Champion will never forget,
And one we shall never have cause to regret.
So thus to a close my long missive I bring,
And am, gentle sirs, an old Farmer from Tring.
It is fervently to be desired that mankind were obliged to make into parcels all, or most of the unasked advice they give. Without doubt the cost of the paper and string, together with the trouble of directing, would put a partial stop to its indulgence.
- ↑ The Editor of Bell's Life.