What nonsense, Charles!
Though rather stiff,
And foreign from the style of Twenty,
There's still enough of cricket stuff
Remaining for the pastime. Plenty!
Why, such a creed as now you preach
Is only fit for scoffs and jeers;
Wait till you lose your wind and reach —
Wait till you come to fifty years.
What nonsense, Charles!
You still can put
The figures up by bounds and leaps, Sir;
There's little myth about the pith
You carry in your muscle. Heaps, Sir!
Not yet the camp-stool period comes,
With feelings precious close to tears;
Still at your choice the leather hums —
Wait till you total fifty years.
What nonsense, Charles!
In you I see —
You, lord of curl on shaven plots, Sir —
A magazine of Fourers clean
Prepared to bruise the railings. Lots, Sir!
I have a dog's-eared birthday list
That makes me mock your silly fears
And hope for centuries from your wrist —
Wait till you come to fifty years.