Part 5

The Mallady called the Pipp, proves of dangerous consequence if not soon lookt after, for they are hereby rendred unable to Feed; and unless speedily prevented by uncaping the Tongue, they pine away, and die for want of Food, tho’ set in the midst of a Grainery.

And therefore when you see a White Scale upon the tip of your Cock or Hen’s Tongue, you must with a Needle, or your Thumb-nail get it clean off, and rub the end of the Tongue well with Salt.

_To Kill Lice in Cocks or Hens._

Lice also are an infirmity common to Cocks and Hens, and usually proceeds from some one of these three things, either thro’ Poverty, and want of Food, or else from foul corrupt Food, or for want of Sand, Ashes, or the like, to bath, and cleanse themselves in.

Now they are cured by taking Pepper pounded small, and put into warm Water with which let them be well washed.

_Of the Gout and its Cure._

The Gout is a certain swelling either in the Claws, or Ball of a Cock’s Foot; it is sometimes hard, and sometimes soft and poosy, but ever hot and burning, and is a very troublesome Malady, and seldom so thoroughly cured as to render the Cock fit either to Fight or Breed after.

’Tis a hereditary distemper in some Cocks; but in others it proceeds from Wounds and loss of Blood, especially when once they begin to grow old, and Humours to grow predominant in them.

I shall here for the Readers benefit mention a trial of Skill which I made upon a very choice Cock of my own, thro’ the help and assistance of a Gentlewoman whose extraordinary Skill both in Physic and Surgery was well known and greatly Celebrated by all that were acquainted with her.

Now the Cock was about two Years old, fresh, fine, and in good tune when I sought him, and he came of a rare Breed, and was delicately Shaped, and sparr’d as fine as most Cocks that ever I saw in all my Life; but for all this meeting with a blow in the Throat at his first coming into the Pit which choaked him up, and being also veined in the Foot at the same time, from which wound he lost a World of Blood, he was at last very hardly, and with much difficulty beaten.

However I was offered half a Peice for him as he lay in my Hands seemingly Dying, but I refus’d it: And taking him Home observed the afore-mentioned method, ordering him as is directed for Cocks after Battle, (_Page_ 67) by which means I soon recovered him and (as I thought) had him perfectly well.

But truly it was not long before I found I was under a mistake, for my Cock began to Limp, and grow Gouty, by reason of a Humour which fell down into that Foot in the which he was veined, and had lost such a great quantity of Blood when he fought last, so that in short it began to heat and swell betwixt the Claws, yet was it not very dicernable.

However I took him up, and having carefully searched his Foot, and for some Days applied Shoe-makers-Wax to it, but finding it not to do, and the Gout growing worse, I took him to the ingenious, and most Skilful Gentlewoman aforesaid, who promised me to do her best for the recovery of my valiant Cripple.

At first she Poultised his Foot, and after that applied the most violent drawing Salves, but to no purpose; for neither _Venice Turpentine_, nor all the Vehement things that she could think on would do any thing; until she applied _Burdock_ Leaves to it, in the nature of a Poultise, and that, after some time did draw it, and brought away abundance of viscous, putrified Matter.

After which she tried to heal the Wound, but to no purpose, for it broke out again, whereupon I took out the Ball or Frog of the Cock’s Foot, and the Gentlewoman healed it again, but it swell’d after this and broke of itself, and run at several Places, so that I was forced a second time to cut out the Ball of my Cock’s Foot, and then after long Salving, with the Application of some drying Powders it was healed up firm and well, and his Foot proved sound and good to his dying Day, but was greatly Clubbed and ugly to look upon, yet did he breed good Chickens and fought divers admirable Battles after this, to my great delight and satisfaction.

And this I only mention by the way, to shew that if you will but use care with some little cost, and add thereto Pains and Patience, most Distempers will be found curable.

_Of the Black Sickness._

The _Black Sickness_ is a Disease so highly destructive to Cocks of the Game, that Men try in vain to cure that incurable Distemper, when once it is got into the Blood, and the Cock or Hen begins to blacken about the Head, and grow Sick withal, no Medicine as yet was ever found that could retrieve a Cock from Death in such a condition.

And therefore to free the Royal Warrior from a Languishing Death, when once he appear to be contaminated and over run with this irresistable Plague, called the _Black Sickness_, I advise that with a tender hand you speedily strike off his Head, and thereby rescue him from those fatal ills which this mortal contagion most assuredly brings along with it.

And thus I think I have gone through the whole System of Cocking, with as much plainness and brevity as might be, without omitting any one particular that is necessary to be understood by the Ingenious Cock-Master.

A POEM, IN PRAISE OF THE Fighting-Cock.

By the Author of this Treatise.

_Of all the numerous Feathered Flock Which_ Jove _Created, the brave Fighting_-Cock _Contains within his truly generous Breast, By much, a Nobler Courage than the rest. When first he spies the Bloody trampled Pit, He claps his Wings, and Crows for Joy to see’t:_ And when set down, he proudly struts along, Careless, and unconcern’d at the great Throng; Who Shouting clap their Hands to see him go So eagerly to meet his threatening Foe; Whose lofty Crimson Front when first he spies, He like the_ Bazilick _thro’ his swoln Eyes Darts Flames of Fury, Death, Revenge, & Spight, And thus enrag’d begins the Bloody Fight. Then on they fall, and like two Dragons meet, Rending the Air both with their Wings and Feet, Untill at length grown mad, they cease to Ward, And desperately closing scorn their Guard. Then, like to Thunder, fall their dreadful Stroaks, And as that slives the strong and mighty Oaks, So their fierce whirling Blows sharply rush thro’ The tender Flesh, and slive the Bones in two. Whilst from their gaping Wounds there streams a flood Which like a Deluge drowns the Pit with Blood: The wounded Warriors reeling to, and fro’, At length grow Faint, and stagger at each Blow: But bravely still maintain the doubtful fight, Altho’ the one want Limbs, the other Sight: ’Till faithless_ Fortune _with a fatal Frown, Sends giddy Chance to pull the destin’d down. Whilst cruel_ Death _in Crimson Colours meets The mangled Carcass, and in Purple Sheets, Presents him strait before the_ Victor _dead; Who views him stretcht upon his Bloody Bed, And hears the Crowd with Shouts Ring his last Peal, Which mournful Eccho Chimes his dying Knell:_ And Praises pierce the Skies from the vast Throng, Who shout the_ Victor _as he Rides along._

Some LINES upon two COCKS.

By Sr. _Rich. Blackmore_.

————————_Two Valiant Cocks in_ Albion _bred, That from the insulting Conqueror never Fled: A Match in Strength, in Courage, and in Age, And with keen Weapons Arm’d, alike engage Each other they assault with furious Beaks, And their twin’d Plumes distain with Bloody streaks, Each nimble Warrior from the Mat-ment bounds, And wing’d with death, their heels deal ghastly Wounds By turns they take, by turns fierce stroaks they give, And with like Hopes, and Fears for Conquest strive. Both obstinate maintain the Bloody Field, Both can in Combat Die, but neither yield. Till with their bleeding Wounds grown weak & faint, And choak’d with flowing gore they gasp and pant: Disabled on the Crimson Floor they lie, Both Honour win, but neither Victory. And now the throng rush in, the Combat’s done, By neither Hero lost, by neither won: And rending with their Shouts the tortured Air, Back from the Pit the Combatants they bear_.

A POEM WRIT UPON COCKING.

By a Person of Honour.

_The lureing Falkner flies over the_ Downs, _And_ Tom _the Huntsman with his deep mouth’d Hounds_, Joler, & Smooker _make the Woods to ring, Whilst_ Poacher _with his_ Light-foot _in a String, Goes silent on, beating each Hedge and Bush, With a design to snap poor frightful_ Puss: _And next_ Jockey _comes prancing o’er the_ Plain, _Guiding his Courser with an Artful Rein; And off the scoreful speed he scours away, And whips, and spurs in hopes to gain the Day. Whilst th’wanton_ Swains _they Dance, and piping sit, As if in Amrous Airs were only Wit. Next these Gamesters at Cards and Dice we place, The Rook, the Silver Fool, and Sattin Ass, That play the Knave, and Cogg a Dye to make Themselves a gainer by the ill got stake. These are all sports that little profit bring: } But noble_ Cocking _is the Game I Sing, } Worthy the greatest Captain, greatest King. } This Pastime I above the rest prefer, In that it fits a Man for Peace or War_. Cocking _breeds courage where before was none, And makes men Stout and die that us’d to run_, Cocking _breeds cunning too, makes men contrive, And puts them in a way to live and thrive: And if the Pious_ Indians _say true, It makes Men Witty, Good, and Godly too. Who then would Hunt and Hawk their time away, Or at the Cards, or Dice sit down to Play: When they by powerful_ Cocking, _this may do, Gain Courage, Wit, and Wealth, and Heaven too._

A Copy of Verses UPON TWO COCKS FIGHTING.

By Dr. _R. Wild_.

_Go you tame Gallants, you that have a Name, And would accounted be Cocks of the Game; That have brave Spurrs to shew for’t, and can Crow, And count all Dunghill breed, that cannot show Such painted Plumes as yours; which think’t no vice. With Cock-like-Lust to tread your Cockatrice. Tho’ Peacocks, Woodcocks, Weathercocks you be. If y’are not Fighting-Cocks y’ are not for me. I of two Feather’d Compatants will Write; And he that means to th’ Life to express their Fight, Must make his Ink the Blood which they did spill, And from their dying Wings must take his Quill._

_No sooner were the doubtful People set, The Match made up, and all that would had bet; But strait the skilful Judges of the Play Brought forth their sharp heel’d Warriors; and they Were both in Linnen Baggs, as if ’twere meet Before they Dy’d, to have their Winding sheet. Into the Pit they’re brought, and being there Upon the Stage, the_ Norfolk _Canticleer Looks stoutly at his ne’er before seen Foe, And like a Challenger began to Crow, And clap his Wings, as if he would display His Warlike Colours which were Black and Grey. Mean time the wary_ Wisbich _walks and breaths His active Body, and in Fury Wreaths His comely Crest, and often looking down, He whets his angry Beak upon the Ground. This done they meet, not like that Coward Breed Of_ Æsop’s; _these can better Fight than Feed; They scorn the Dunghill, ’tis their only Prize, To dig for Pearls within each other’s Eyes. They Fought so nimbly that ’twas hard to know, To th’ Skilful, whether they did Fight or no; If that the Blood which dy’d the fatal Floor, Had not born Witness of’t. Yet Fought they more: As if each Wound were but a Spur to Prick Their Fury forward, Lightnings not more quick, Or red, than were their Eyes: ’Twas hard to know Whether ’twas Blood or Anger made them so. I’m sure they had been out, had they not stood More safe, by being fenced in with Blood. Thus they vy’d blows; but yet_ (Alas!) _at length, Altho’ their Courage were full try’d, their Strength, And Blood began to Ebb. You that have seen A Watry Combat on the Sea between Two angry-roaring-boyling Billows, how They march, and meet, and dash their curled Brow; Swelling like Graves, as tho’ they did intend T’intomb each other e’er the Quarrel end; But when the Wind is down, blustring Weather, They are made Friends, and sweetly run together; May think these Champions such; their Blood grows low And they which leapt before, now scarce can go: Their Wings which lately at each blow they clapt, (As if they did applaud themselves) now flapt; And having lost th’ advantage of the Heel, Drunk with each others Blood, they only reel; From either Eyes such drops of Blood did fall, As if they wept them for their Funeral. And yet they fain would Fight; they came so near, Methought they meant into each other’s Ear To whisper Wounds; and when they could not rise, They lay and lookt Blows int’ each others Eyes, But now the Tragic Part! after this fit, When_ Norfolk _Cock had got the best of it, And_ Wisbich _lay a Dying, so that none, Tho’ sober but might venture Seven to One; Contracting, like a dying, Taper all His strength, intending with the Blow to fall: He struggles up, and having taken Wind, Ventures a Blow, and strikes the other blind. And now poor_ Norfolk _having lost his Eyes, Fights only guided by Antapathies: With him_ (Alas!) _the Proverb holds not true; The blows his Eyes ne’er saw his Heart must rue. At length by chance he stumbled on his foe, Not having any power to strike a blow, He falls upon him with his wounded Head, And makes his Conqueror’s wings his Feather-bed: Where lying sick his Friends were very Charie Of him, and fetcht in hast Apothecary; But all in vain his Body did so blister, That ’twas uncapable of any Clister; Wherefore at length opening his fainting Bill He call’d a Scriv’ner and thus made his Will._

Inprimis_, Let it never be forgot, My Body freely I bequeath to th’ Pot, Decently to be boil’d, and for its Tomb Let it be buried in some hungry Womb_. Item. _Executors I will have none, But he that on my side laid Seven to One: And like a Gentleman that he may live, To him and to his Heirs my Comb I give, Together with my Brains, that all may know, That oftentimes his Brains did use to crow_. Item. _It is my will to th’ weaker Ones Whose Wives complain of them, I give my Stones; To him that’s dull I do my Spurs impart; And to the Coward I bequeath my Heart: To Ladies that are Light it is my will, My Feathers should be given; and for my Bill I’d giv’t a Taylor but it is so short, That I’m afraid he’ll rather curse me for’t: And for the Apothecaries fee who meant To give me a Clister, let my Rump be sent_. Lastly, _because I feel my Life decay, I yield and give to_ Wisbich _Cock the day._

A Copy of Verses Writ upon a COCK-MATCH.

By a Lover of the _Royal Sport_.

_The Clock has struck four, let’s hasten away And five hunder’d or more as I hear say; Are gon to the Pitt, to see_ Dragon _Fight, With_ Tom _of Ten Thousands, Tabering White. And now the_ Red Pile, _that kills at a Hol’t; He Fights with_ Barr-Dun, _that won the_ Baye Colt. _And_ York-shire Gray; _which at Newmarket Fought, And won the two Guinnies laid to a Groat; Must Fight with_ Old Cuckoo _this afternoon, And kills him out right, I hold you a Crown. Now, now they come in, what odds of the Match_, Dragon _he’s Wounded, the very first Touch. Ten Guinnies to Five, well Fought_ little White;_ Dragon’s _choak’d his choa’d and quite of his Fight, Come twenty Guinnies to two for a Bett, I hold any Mony sett Feeder sett. Hold, hold stand off he fights, what odds—E’gad. A-ho-_Dragon _has pind him though the Head. Come, come my Lord, the Guinnies thirty two And sixteen more_ Sir John, _I claim of You. These were rare Cocks indeed, what odds o’th next_ Pile _for a Piece, yet if_ Barr Dunn _be vext; And come to Fight in blood a holt or two All’s up, for then he’ll strike him through, and through. There have at all they Fight it rarely well; Which has the odds? Egad no one can tell. Come Gold to Silver, I am for the_ Dun, _Pox of ill Luck, all’s up, the_ Pile _has won; And but in time, for he has lost an Eye; And bleeds so fast, he cannot chuse but Dye. Well, Captain come the next, what odds of these Ten pound of Either Side, take which you please, I’ll be for the_ New market Gray, _’tis don. And I am for the_ Cuckoo, _cause he’ll run; What run away? no, no Sir, only Shift, Duggle, and dowke, turn to the right, and left. You know Sir, how, yes I know what you mean; But what if after all, your_ Dugler’s _Slain, I’ll venture that, and bett you Ten Pound more: ’Tis done my Lord, I hold you Six, to Four. I take it._ Cuckoo _Fights it rarely well So there Lad, there, the_ Gray _begins to swell. Well he’s a rare Revenging Cock indeed And Spight of Fate he makes the_ Cuckoo _Bleed, See how he Storms the Subtile headed Thief; Yet after all he’ll run him out o’ns Life. No, no, the_ Cuckoo _sinks, his race is run, The Battle’s Ended and the_ Gray _has Won. And now they Shoutings rise, and march away, Each takes his Bottle, and so Ends the Day._

_FINIS._

Transcriber‘s Notes:

Underscores “_” before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_ in the original text. Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved. Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.