His house so old was hung around with bats, and stumps, and balls,
And many scores of games played out were placed against the walls,
And many books were laid about, in which with care he wrote
The names and style of playing of each cricketer of note.
And who, like him, could hand the bat at this old English game,
And who could bowl such good length-balls, with such continued aim?
At point, long-stop, long-leg, or slip, all equally the same
And whoe'er took the wicket, that could rival him in fame?
When a winter's blast blew keenly past, this good old-fashioned soul
Would bale his goblet brimful from a rare old-fashioned bowl;
He lov'd full well to sing or tell of some contested match;
And oft would he declare with glee he ne'er had missed a catch.
And so it was when good old age, like snow, had blanched his hair,
That youthful heat yet warmed his heart no coldness e'er dwelt there;
And when, at length, his stumps gave way, yet still would he repair
The game to see, or umpire be, though seated in a chair.
