his simple joys, his manly sorrows, his conversational excellences,
and his indomitable pluck. The author has never been a prize-fighter
himself, but he claims for these Rhymes the merit of absolute truth
in every detail. In any case it is quite certain that every critic
who reviews the volume will say of it, that no previous book has
ever presented to us, with such complete fidelity, the British
prize-fighter as he lives and moves, and has his being--not the gaudy,
over-dressed and over-jewelled creature whom the imagination of the
public pictures as haunting the giddy palaces of pleasure, and adored
by the fairest of the fair, but the rough, uncouth, simple creature
to whom we Britons owe our reputation for pluck and stamina. How the
critic knows this, never having been a prize-fighter himself, and
never having associated with them, is a question which it might be
difficult to answer. But, nevertheless, the critic will guarantee the
"_Rhymes of the Ropes_."

If some of _Mr. Punch's_ readers, while recognising the force and go
of the lines, shall think them _tant soit peu_ coarse and brutal, the
fault must not be ascribed to _Mr. Punch_, but to the brilliant young
author. Moreover, _Mr. Punch_ begs leave to say, that squeamishness
of that kind is becoming more and more absurd every day under the
influence of the New Poetry and its professors. Here then is--

KNOCKED OUT.

BY MR. R*D**RD K*PL*NG.

Oh it's bully when I land 'em with a counter on the jaw,
When the ruby's all a drippin' and the conks are red and raw;
And it's bully when I've downed 'em, and the lords are standin'