We had a fellow in the School
Whose batting simply was a dream:
A dozen times by keeping cool
And hitting hard he saved the Team.
But oh! his fielding was so vile,
As if by witch or goblin cursed,
That he was called by Arthur Style,
King Butterlegs the Worst!
At tea-time, supper, breakfast, lunch,
For many disappointed days,
We reasoned with him in a bunch,
Imploring him to mend his ways.
He listened like a saint, with lips
As if in desperation pursed;
Then gave three fourers in the Slips —
King Butterlegs the Worst!
‘ Twas after this the Captain tried,
In something warmer than a pet,
To comfort his lamenting Side
By pelting Curtice in a net.
Aware of his tremendous power,
The Captain used it well at first,
And peppered only half-an-hour
King Butterlegs the Worst!
But half-an-hour at such a range —
From such a Captain!— was enough
To work so prompt and blest a change
That Curtice ceased to be a muff.
When from his bed at last he came,
Where fifty bruises had been nursed,
He was no more a public shame,
Nor Butterlegs the Worst!