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Mr. Punch's Book of Sports
OUR VILLAGE ELEVEN
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TOM BOWLING
Except at lunch, I cannot say
With truth that we are stayers;
Yet, though on village greens we play,
We're far from common players.
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.
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