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46
A BOUNDARY.
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.
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.
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.
47
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.
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.
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