Who, fearless fellows, are not found to flinch
When some Proprietor essays to pinch
Their holiest thoughts at eightpence for the inch.
* * * * * *
Such, Jock, as these are we who bear your name
Content (well, almost) with the good old game
Of moderate Fortune unrelieved by Fame.
But there are Nobler Souls about the place,
Such spirits as have built our Island Race,
Heroes who must, who simply must, have space.
'Twas not to serve the pen that Nature gave
To these their love of all that's large and brave;
For Them an ampler life upon the Wave!
* * * * * *
So when your father (while I mop the tea)
Says that he rather thinks you'll go to sea,
Dear Jock, sweet Jock, your uncle must agree.
MORE CRICKET
TO AN OLD BAT