Cuttin' an' drivin' his best endeavour
While pluck an' muscle an' sight befriend.
I'm slow, in course; an' at times a stitch, Sir,
Makes me muddle the stroke I planned;
But I'm not yet ready to leave the pitch, Sir,
For Lord knows what in the Better Land!
Some dirty day, when eyes are dimmer,
Old Death will have his chance to scoff;
For up his sleeve he's got a trimmer
Bound to come a yard from the off!