Part 7 (2/2)

Six legal wigs, like well-plumed tappit hens, Sat brooding o'er a pair of fighting c.o.c.ks; While lesser wigs, begowned, and brief in hand, Declaimed in flowing periods, of the fray, Like ancient bards, that wanted but their harps, Their wallets, ballad verse, and song, to make The very goose quills, sleeping on the bench, Awake! take sides and spill each other's ink.

And as they spake, a legal fog dropt down Upon the learned six, and each beheld, In green mirage, born of the cloud of words, Two c.o.c.ks, Game c.o.c.ks, crop-combed, erect, and slim, With feathers dipped in crimson, gold, and blue, Frill-necked, with trailing wings and spurs of steel, That on each other flew and pecked and spurred, And spurred and pecked again, until the Court Reeked like a c.o.c.k-pit, and the crowd of wigs,-- Of boyish idle wigs,--took bonnet shapes That hooded scowling brows of cursing men, Who laid their bets on this bird, and on that, As, with quick panting breath and beaks agape, They pranced, flew, fought, until the oaken bar Seemed spattered o'er with feathers and c.o.c.k blood.

At length one c.o.c.k the other overthrew, And struck quick spurs into his quivering breast Until he died; then he, with croaking crow, Fell, wounded, bleeding, dying by his side Amid the applauding cheers of thirsty throats, Soon to be slaked with liquid bets, and so The battle ended, but the fog remained.

A rustling of silk plumes upon the bench, Five wigs bent low, and thus great Solon spake-- ”'Twas in Kilbarchan that this fight was fought, And straight the men who prompted it were ta'en, And jailed, and tried, and sentenced for the same; But now they seek release, and this their plea, That in the gracious Act which says that men Shall not treat brutes and beasts with cruelty, The name of ”_c.o.c.k_” is absent; therefore they Claim full exemption for their brutish deeds, And we, vicegerents of our gentle Queen, With spectacle on nose, must well explore This vital point in _c.o.c.kieleerie-law_.

The illumined page of history reveals c.o.c.k-fighting as an ancient royal sport.

The Early Greeks and Romans in their day Found pastime sweet in setting c.o.c.k on c.o.c.k; The sage Themistocles took keen delight In battling fowls; while glorious Caesar, too, Loved much to back his bird; and, furthermore, Marc Antony's gamec.o.c.ks did always lose When pitted against Caesar's fiercer breed.

King Henry VIII., of sainted memory!

At Whitehall had a special c.o.c.k-pit built, Wherein his royal birds made lively sport For gentle dames and all his merry knights.

The most accomplished scholar of his day, Squire Roger Ascham, tutor to Queen Bess, Much as he loved his books, loved c.o.c.ks the more, And loved them most when victors in the fight.

And last of all, that great and n.o.ble Duke, The conqueror of Blenheim, in game birds Found something that reminded him of self; And thus we see the fighting instinct strong In c.o.c.ks, and other n.o.bles of past time.

”Game c.o.c.ks, we find, from earliest c.o.c.kereldom, Delight in war, as dogs to bark and bite, And raining blows upon each other's ribs Do best fulfil their part of nature's plan, Which built them slim and bade them love the fray; And while we hope no preference here to show,-- 'Tis open question, whether rearing fowls To wring their necks, or match them in the pit, Does more exalt the brute or sink the man.

”But here, the c.o.c.ks were armed with spurs of steel, And 'tis a subtle matter, whether they With iron shod, or spurred with native horn, Do deal the deadliest blows in angry fray; And, while we have our own opinion strong!

'Tis not within our province to p.r.o.nounce.

”If it be wrong with steel to p.r.i.c.k a fowl, What of the spurs with which hard riders goad The bleeding sides of horses in the race, Or in the steeplechase, or country hunt?

And what of hares in coursing run to death?

Of quivering foxes torn by yelling hounds?

Of wheeling pigeons slaughtered for a prize?

We make no mention of the common use, Of otter hunting, grouse and pheasant drives.

And of the sport termed _n.o.ble_, where the stag Is forced upon the guns that lay him low.

No doubt, two blacks can never make one white, Nor multiplying blacks turn black to grey; But if to brutalise mankind be thought amiss, Then there are other ways, than fighting c.o.c.ks.

”Still that's beside our purpose, which is this-- To scan the statute, microscope in hand, And note if in its sweep humane, we see A roosting place for fighting chanticleer.

And there we find, or rather fail to find, The name of ”c.o.c.k” among the saving list Of nineteen beasts protected by the law, Though thus the list concludes, ”_and other kinds Of animals domestic_,” or like words.

Are we to find Game c.o.c.ks, domestic fowls?

Are we to hold that birds, are animals?

Our view is quite the contrary, or else There's not a beast, bird, fish, or insect but The term ”domestic” would to them apply, And make it penal e'en to slay a louse.

”And while, in other parts of this same Act, We find ”c.o.c.k” followed by the general phrase, ”_Or other kind of animal_,” we hold It bears not on the matter now in hand, But only serves to show that Parliament, When brooding, clucking, hen-like, o'er this Act, Had c.o.c.ks well in their eye, and plainly did, Of purpose full, omit them from the list; And while bear-fights, bull-fights, dog-fights, and all Vile sports and brutish cruelty to beasts, The spirit and the letter of the law Do quite forbid, _unanimous we hold c.o.c.k-fighting is a lawful use of c.o.c.ks, And finding so we liberate these men_.

”It will be said, this Statute has been read Reversely in our sister England, where It is the Charter of proud Chanticleer; But what of that? It alters not our mind!

But only shews, that they, of feebler clay, Stick not at trifles, so the end be good, And let the heart o'erbeat the legal mind; While we, of sterner stuff, fail not to find Motes in the suns.h.i.+ne of their simple wits, And gnats to strain out of their cups of wine; For in the nice accomplishment and use Of splitting hairs, and weighing feathers small, Of riddling wisdom from a peck of words, We are more skilled, more subtle, more profound Than our legal brethren of the South.”

Whereat five horse-hair wigs again bowed down In low obeisance to the mighty sage, And straight the Court was cleared of c.o.c.ks and men.

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