The Blind Boxer

Poor Bobby, I remember when

Thou wert a god to drunken men;

But now they push thee off, or crack

Thy nuts and give no money back;

They swear they’ll strike thee in the face,

Dost thou not hurry from that place;

Such are the men that once would pay

To keep thee drunk from day to day.

With all thy strength and cunning skill,

Thy courage, lasting breath, and will,

Thou’rt helpless now; a little ball,

No bigger than a cherry small,

Has now refused to guide and lead

Twelve stone of strong, hard flesh that need

But that ball’s light to make thee leap

And strike these cowards down like sheep.

Poor, helpless Bobby, blind: I see

Thy working face and pity thee.