Still I know I’m as keen as ever
    Tacklin’ the stuff he likes to send,
  Cuttin’ an’ drivin’ his best endeavour
    While pluck an’ muscle an’ sight befriend. 
  I’m slow, in course; an’ at times a stitch, Sir,
    Makes me muddle the stroke I planned;
  But I’m not yet ready to leave the pitch, Sir,
    For Lord knows what in the Better Land!

  Some dirty day, when eyes are dimmer,
    Old Death will have his chance to scoff;
  For up his sleeve he’s got a trimmer
    Bound to come a yard from the off! 
  It’ll do me down!  But if he’s a chap, Sir,
    Able to tell a job well done,
  No doubt he’ll give his foe a clap, Sir,
    Walkin’ out of the crease an’ sun.

  ’Tis more than forty years I’ve tasted
    Sweet and bitter supplied by Luck,
  Never thinkin’ an hour was wasted,
    Whether I blobbed or whether I stuck. 
  Long as I had some kind of wicket,
    ’Twas never the wrong ’un, fast or slow;
  An’ I thank my stars I took to Cricket
    Seven-an’-fifty years ago!

  The game’s been missus an’ kids to me, Sir—­
    Aye, an’ a rare good girl she’s been! 
  I met her first at my father’s knee, Sir,
    An’ married her young on Richmond Green. 
  An’ as she’s proved so true a lover,
    Never inclined to scratch or scold,
  When the long day’s fun at last is over,
    I’ll love her still in the churchyard cold!

  I’ve never twisted my brain with thinkin’
    The way life goes in the world above,
  But lessons here there ain’t no blinkin’
    Make me guess that the Umpire’s Love! 
  God knows I’ve muffed some easy chances
    Of doing good, like a silly lout;
  But because He’s fairer nor any fancies
    I’m not in a funk of hearin’, “Out!”

FIVE YEARS AFTER.

  Many a mate of splice and leather,
  Out in the stiff autumnal weather,
  There we stood by his grave together,
      After his innings;
  All on a day of misty yellow
  Watching in grief a grim old fellow,
  Death, who diddles both young and mellow,
      Pocket his winnings.

  Flew from his hand the matchless skimmer! 
  Breaking a yard, the destined trimmer,
  Beating the bat and the eyes grown dimmer,
      Shattered the wicket! 
  Slow to the dark Pavilion wending,
  His head on his breast, with Mercy friending,
  The batsman walked to his silent ending,
      Finished with cricket.

  Whether or not that gaunt Professor
  Noting his man; that stark Assessor
  Of faulty play in the bat’s possessor
      Clapped for his foeman,
  We who had seen that figure splendid
  Guarding the stumps so well defended
  Wept and cheered when by craft was ended
      Innings and yeoman!

  Not long before the ball that beat him,
  All ends up, went down to meet him,
  Tie him up in a knot, defeat him
    Once and for ever,
  He told his mates that he wished, when hoary
  Time put an end to his famous story,
  To trudge with his old brown bag to Glory,
    Separate never!