Song of the Boxing Glove.

'Tis an age when aesthetical sage and athletical lover of fitness and trim
Really ought to examine the sport I can cram in a casual hour in the gym.
With rapid profanity, vapid inanity, sneers at my boon as a craze,
For the art of divinity, smart asininity never could master or praise.
page 87 Oh the boxing ring is the song men sing, in the gaze of a nerve-thrilled throng;
Applause they shout for the hard-fought bout, and the contest waged long;
Cheer they the grit of the man hard hit who'll fight till his muscle fails,
But hiss they the qualm of the faltering arm and the flinch of the eye that quails.

See any combatant, able and competent, gracing the manliest art:

His muscles a-quivering hustle the shivering nervousness out of his heart;

The vague subtle "trim" of each trained supple limb, is revealed in the flare of the light,

His pulses fly quicker, his steely eyes flicker with will to prevail in the fight.

But I am the glove the strong men love, when the boredom at College is done;
The sporting men's joy, and the manly men's toy,
when the race after knowledge is run;
And the echoes resound, as the pugilists bound on the canvassed floor above:
Oh I'm the elusive, evasive, delusive, but velvety boxing glove.

The mind's evolution can find no solution for training your physical parts,

Your veneer and your clever lies never will civilise primitivie man from your hearts.

The hand to hand grapple, the man to man battle, produce what no elegance can—

The ready and steady, the feerless and peerless. the competent, confident man.

Oh the boxing ring is the song men sing, in the gaze of a nerve-thrilled throng;
Applause they shout for the hard-fought bout, and the contest waged long;
Cheer they the grit of the man hard hit who'll fight till his muscle fails,
But hiss they the qualm of the faltering arm and the flinch of the eye that quails.