Of what was once a glorious zest,
And female men are thick as thieves,
With croquet, ping-pong, and the rest,
Prophetic eyes discern the shame
Shall humble England in the dust;
And in their graves our sires shall flame
With scorn to know the Nation's game
Cat's-cradle; Cricket gone to rust,
My Lads
Ah, for a winged and wounding pen,