And, on the crimson hearthrug scoring,
Through Fancy's slips he cuts the ball,
Or lifts her over Fancy's wall,
Till all the ghostly ring is roaring!
And when at length the day is near
For Death to bowl the Major's wicket,
(The Major swears he has no fear
That Paradise is short of cricket!)
If in the time of pad and crease
His soul receives its last advices,