reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight,
And his height at five-foot-two,
With a face as plain as an eight-day clock
And a walk as brisk as a bantam-cock—
Game as a bantam, too,
Hard and wiry and full of steam,
That’s the boss of the English Team,
Makes no row when the game gets rough—
None of your “Strike me blue!”
“You’s wants smacking across the snout!”
Plays like a gentleman out-and-out—
Same as he ought to do.
“Kindly remove from off my face!”
That’s the way that he states his case—
Kick! He can kick like an army mule—
Run like a kangaroo!
Hard to get by as a lawyer-plant,
Tackles his man like a bull-dog ant—
Fetches him over too!
Didn’t the public cheer and shout
Watchin’ him chuckin’ big blokes about—
Scrimmage was packed on his prostrate form,
Somehow the ball got through—
Who was it tackled our big half-back,
Flinging him down like an empty sack,
Right on our goal-line too?
Who but the man that we thought was dead,
Down with a score of ’em on his head,