And when in somersaults a stump
Denotes a victim of the game,
Her lovely throat begets a lump,
Her cheeks with indignation flame.
She scarce can keep her seat, and longs
To cheer the fallen hero's fate;
Her fingers clench upon the bench
As if it were the Trundler's pate!
Because this rascal's on the spot
Her passion fails to be concealed;