No vulgar wood was the bat of might
That swung in the grasp of Harding wight;
No vulgar maker’s name it wore,
Nor vulgar was the name it bore.
It was a bat full fair to see,
And it drove the balls right lustily;
Without a flaw, without a speck,
Smoothe as fair Hebe’s ivory neck—
It was withal so light, so neat,
The Harding called it—Mrs. Keate.