Trial by Combat.

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume IX, Issue 912, 26 January 1881, Page 2

Trial by Combat.

The following is the concluding Canto of this direful struggle, and was read on Monday night at McFarlane’s Hall by Mr. Thornton: — Canto 111. Let do tender-hearted maiden, Or a nervous mind peruse, The dreadful scene depicted here, Lest it give to them the blues. Those streams of blood and gashes deep, From thrust of brand and spear, The goings on around proclaim That “Mangling is done here.” Father Taruheru’s bosom Thus the clanging echo bore, Of the loud resounding weapons On his sanguinary shore. Like lightning flash or ocean dash Like scathing mitrailleuse, Like engine smash of Tay Bridge crash, Like torrent break : ng loose; Like Lochnagar which came ashore, Like Town Clerk for the rates, Like Kidd impounding your poor dog, Or a bull at twenty gates, This pair of unforgiving men Went at it tooth and nails, Like raw-boned fierce Kilkenny cats, With nine times ninety tails. The “sweet one” aimed at Beer a thrust, That meant the kingdom come, Broke through his guard, and punched him in The epi-gas-tri-um. I cannot stomach this says Beer, I’ll now give you your fill,' You’ll think you’ro thro’ the thingumbobs Of J. R. Uurrey’s mill. I’ll take the flour, to you the husk, The bran goes to the poor, Don’t turn so pale. Oh ! what a day . We’re having to be sure.

“ Look out I” said Beer, and aimed a blow To ward no easy task, Down whirling came upon the foe, And struck him on the casque. Prone on the turf the warrior fell, • Right grimly three X smiled, Took up his brand, examined it, . Pronounced it very mild. Is this the “ wine that needs no bush ? From Auckland to the Bluff, Oh! Socrates, can you compare The Local with this stuff. Arise, and back your vaunted brand, For strength and purity. Nine times he loudly challenged him, And nine times no reply, So Three X on the battle field, Proclaimed ’midst wars alarms, Henceforth I quarter “ Challenge ” on My patrimonial arms. Moral.—lf you must tread on others’ toes, Impaled you’ll be, I fear, Like friendly William on the pint, Of Local Crawford spear (beer).