OUR VILLAGE ELEVEN
The mason blocks with careful eye;
We dub him "Old Stonewall."
The blacksmith hammers hard and high,
And the spreading chestnuts fall.
Sheer terror strikes our enemies
When comes the postman's knock,
Whereas his slow deliveries
Would suit the veriest crock.
The butcher prides himself on chops;
His leg-cuts are a joke;
But when he lambs the slow long-hops
There's beef behind his stroke.
The grocer seldom cracks his egg:
He cannot catch; he butters.
The gardener mows each ball to leg,
And trundles daisy-cutters.