Studies in the new Poetry.

No.  III.

It is with the greatest possible pleasure that Mr. Punch presents to his readers the following example of the New Poetry.  It is taken from a collection entitled “Rhymes of the Ropes” These Rhymes are intended to illustrate the everyday life of the British prize-fighter, his simple joys, his manly sorrows, his conversational excellences, and his indomitable pluck.  The author has never been a prize-fighter himself, but he claims for these Rhymes the merit of absolute truth in every detail.  In any case it is quite certain that every critic who reviews the volume will say of it, that no previous book has ever presented to us, with such complete fidelity, the British prize-fighter as he lives and moves, and has his being—­not the gaudy, over-dressed and over-jewelled creature whom the imagination of the public pictures as haunting the giddy palaces of pleasure, and adored by the fairest of the fair, but the rough, uncouth, simple creature to whom we Britons owe our reputation for pluck and stamina.  How the critic knows this, never having been a prize-fighter himself, and never having associated with them, is a question which it might be difficult to answer.  But, nevertheless, the critic will guarantee the “Rhymes of the Ropes.”

If some of Mr. Punch’s readers, while recognising the force and go of the lines, shall think them tant soit peu coarse and brutal, the fault must not be ascribed to Mr. Punch, but to the brilliant young author.  Moreover, Mr. Punch begs leave to say, that squeamishness of that kind is becoming more and more absurd every day under the influence of the New Poetry and its professors.  Here then is—­

Knocked out.

By Mr. R*D**rd K*Pl*Ng.

  Oh it’s bully when I land ’em with a counter on the jaw,
  When the ruby’s all a drippin’ and the conks are red and raw;
  And it’s bully when I’ve downed ’em, and the lords are standin’
          booze,
  Them lords with shiny shirt-fronts, and their patent-leather shoes. 
        But you’d best look jolly meek
        When you’re up afore the beak,
  For they hustle you, and bustle you, and treat you like a dog. 
        And its ’Olloway for you
        For a month or may be two,
  Where the Widow keeps a mansion and purvides you with your prog.

  It was ’ero ’ere and ’ero there, I might ’ave been a King,
  For to ’ear ’em ’ip ’urraying as I stepped into the ring,
  When I faced the Tipton Slasher, me and ’im in four-ounce gloves,
  Just to make us look as ‘armless as a pair o’ bloomin’ doves. 
        Then I bruises ’im and batters,
        And ’e cuts my lips to tatters,
  And I gives ’im ’alf a dozen where ’is peepers ought to be. 
        And ’e flattens out my nose
        With a brace of bally blows,
  Which I ’ardly ’ad expected from a pug as couldn’t see.