titled below the image ’As seen in the Ring at Devonport on Monday 23 Octr. 1826, when he threw Abm. Cann, the Champion of Devonshire for a Stake of 200 Sovns' and production details 'M. Gauci lithog: / Printed by Hullmandel.' and inscribed faintly in graphite 'From a drawing by [?] Hevhit for [illeg] / S Columb'. This graphite inscription is also on the British Museum copy [1943,0410.2111]

490 by 330mm. (19¼ by 13 inches).

Polkinhorn had a number of famous contests against Devon fighters, including Jackman and Abraham Cann in 1826. Polkington’s fight with Cann was attended by over 12,000 people. The Devon style of wrestling was to wear boots with toes that had been soaked in bullock’s blood and then baked as ‘hard as flint’. Polkinhorn fought in the Cornish style and was a ‘hugger’ who fought without footwear. The match was a draw.
In retirement he became landlord of a pub.

The match between Cann and Polkington gave birth to an epic ballad on wrestling

“New Song on the Wrestling Match Between Cann and Polkinghorne

When Polkinghorne did first agree,
And Cann the day did fix, Sir,
It was Ocober twenty-three,
In eighteen twenty-six, Sir,
And „twas beside the Tamar stream
This wrestling was appointed,
You‟d think the crowds they hither came
To see the Lord‟s anointed.
The seats were fastened well with clamps,
For gentlefolks to look on
Cornubia‟s son in stocking vamps,
And Cann, who had a shoe on;
And here were brothers, sons and dad,
Besides their num‟rous friends, Sir,
With ev‟ry man could mount a pad,
From Dorset to Land‟s End, Sir.
The men shook hands, Cann seized upon
His opponent‟s left shoulder,
And he as quickly fasten‟d on
The elbow of the holder;
They both got hitched, when, oh, good lack!
Why who could have portended,
That in five minutes on his back
Cann thus should lay extended?
One Devon Tryer shook his head
With wisdom so profound, Sir,
He thought full sure that Cann was dead,
As he lay on the ground, Sir.
The Devon men sung out – “foul play,”
And made a hideous clatter,
While some roar‟d out – “Why Aby, pray.”
“Why, Aby! What‟s the matter?”
Cann is a man of as good game,
As ever yet was born, Sir,
But has not weight nor strength to tame
The game of Polkinghorne, Sir,
These Cornishmen are such a breed,
I‟ve freely made my mind up,

To set them down as Adam‟s seed,
Instructed by old Jacob.
But Cann rose up with half his crown,
His bones and feelings sore, Sir,
For Devon ne‟er had seen him down
For nine long years before, Sir;
So after fifteen minutes pause,
They hitched again and try‟, Sir,
How soon they could decide the cause –
Who‟d be old England‟s Pride, Sir.
Cann, like a donkey, kick‟d away,
To spoil his understanders
But Polky‟s friends disliked such play,
And they‟re not geese nor ganders;
They said it might the dandies shock,
And give the doctors joy, Sir
But he must come the Cornish lock,
Ere he could throw their boy, Sir.
Polk caught Cann round the waist, to try,
The heave was his intent, Sir,
But he was ready instantly,
His aim for to prevent, Sir
Cann lock‟d his foot right firm and fast,
Both acted very clever,
Polk could not heave – the time was past,
And both fell down together.
The Tryers, then, on either side,
They had a full hour‟s contest,
But as they could not it decide,
To toss they thought it was best;
„Twas Cann‟s hard fate to meet the loss,
Though sure as he was born, Sir,
He had a better chance at toss
Than tossing Polkinghorne, Sir.
Then, coming to the scratch, again,
Each man was very hearty,
They us‟d their utmost pow‟rs amain,
In hopes to please their party:
When Cann was thrown-what Devon felt
I need not here repeat, Sir,
But Polkinghorne got the belt,
And then rode in state, Sir.
A dreadful clamour then arose,
Devonia said – “No fall”, Sir,
„Twas thought indeed they‟d come to blows,
To make it but a foil, Sir.
So Polkinghorne was borne again,
By all his friends desire, Sir,
But Devon wish‟d him back again,
In hopes that he might tire, Sir.
The Alfred Journal did report
That it was not a fall, Sir,
And judging it by Devon sport,
It only was a foil, Sir,
But if his paper it had got,
In number such a fall, Sir
He‟d think how hard had been his lot
To meet with such a foil, Sir.
Now Cann himself, as I‟ve been told,
Says he was thrown for certain,
But Devon bets would want such gold –
My eye and Betty Martin!
With heavy hearts and packets light,
The Devon men departed,
The Cornishmen they were all right,
And for St Columb started.
I fear my song is much too long,
So pardon I must crave, Sir,
And my voice it is not strong,
This shall be the last stave, Sir,
So while the hero‟s health you put,
To Devon I must say, Sir,
Though Cann can shuffle and can cut,
With Polk he cannot play, Sir.”

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