But life's a game which all must play, and none can ever doubt
That though for years we may keep in, we must at length go out.
When eighty and ten notches full this rare old man had scored,
He fell. The rich and poor his loss most bitterly deplored.
The bat now flits o'er his remains—near yonder church they lie;
Go—mark! this simple epitaph will surely meet your eye:
'Here lies an honest cricketer, who never heaved a sigh,
Save when he found that some old friend had passed his wicket by.'
But tho' he's gone, yet still let us all imitate his ways—
Like him respected live and die, blest with each good man's praise.
Our good old games we'll cherish still, and prize them one and all,
And 'cricket ne'er shall be forgot while we can play a ball.'
Mr. Budd died at Rose Cottage, Wroughton, in Wiltshire, on March 29th, 1875, aged ninety.
And here comes to an end this rambling history of a simple folk, Nyren's friends and contemporaries, fathers of the game. That the charge of triviality may be brought against it I am quite prepared to learn; but their very triviality is part of the attraction of these old records. I like to think that Mr. Haygarth thought
