“We entered soft, for feelings sad were stirring in our breast, To take our farewell of the lad who now was gone to rest; We took a drop of Dan’s potheen,[28] and joined the piteous roar; Oh, where shall be his fellow seen, since Daniel is no more?
“His was the fist, whose weighty dint did Oliver defeat, His was the fist that gave the hint it need not oft repeat. His was the fist that overthrew his rivals o’er and o’er; But now we cry, in phillalu, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’
“Cribb, Cooper, Carter, need not fear great Donnelly’s renown, For at his wake we’re seated here, while he is lying down; For Death, that primest swell of all, has laid him on the floor, And left us here, alas! to bawl, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’
“Here lies Sir Daniel Donnelly, a pugilist of fame, In Ireland bred and born was he, and he was genuine game; Then if an Irishman you be, when you have read this o’er, Go home and drink the memory of him who is no more.”
“In Fancy-land there is a burst of woe, The spirit’s tribute to the fallen; see On each scarr’d front the cloud of sorrow glow, Bloating its sprightly shine. But what is he For whom grief s mighty butt is broach’d so free? Were his brows shadow’d by the awful crown, The bishop’s mitre, or high plumery Of the mail’d warrior? Won he his renown On pulpit, throne, or field, whom Death hath now struck down?
“He won it in the field, where arms are none, Save those the mother gives to us. He was A climbing star, which had not fully shone; Yet promised, in his glory, to surpass Our champion star ascendant: but, alas! The sceptred shade that values early might, And pow’r, and pith, and bottom, as the grass, Gave with his fleshless fist a buffet slight—
“’Tis done. Green-mantled Erin May weep; her hopes of milling sway past by, And Cribb, sublime, no lowlier rival fearing, Before, sole Ammon of the fistic sky, Concerted, quaffing his blue ruin high, Till comes the swell that come to all men must, By whose ‘foul blow’ Sir Daniel low doth lie, Summons the champion to resign his trust, And mingles his with kings’, slaves’, chieftains’, beggars’ dust!”
On Sunday, February 27, 1820, the remains of this celebrated character were borne, with all due pomp and solemnity, from his family residence in Greek Street to the last asylum at Bully’s Acre, where his ancestors lie quietly inurned. An immense concourse, some in carriages and some on horseback, moving in slow and measured pace, formed part of the procession. There was a strong muster of the fancy. The gloves were carried on a cushion in front of the hearse, from which the horses had been unyoked by the crowd, and multitudes contended for the honour of assisting in drawing it. The procession took its route through the leading streets of the city, and the numbers, as it passed, increased until the body of the champion was lodged in its last resting-place. It is for posterity to do justice to the prowess of Sir Daniel Donnelly. Not the least remarkable feature in his eventful history is, that he was the last person who received the honour of knighthood during the regency: there might have been, and probably were, worse men among those who received that honour before him. Although last, he did not deserve to be held as least, among the knights of our day.