And so he meets his match. The sixth is played
By the stiff pater with his growing lads,
With spectacles on nose, and bat in hand;
They trundle at the stumps a world too fast
For his sore shins; yet his big, manly heart,
Turning again toward youthful pleasure, glows
And revels at each ball. Last match of all,
Which ends the sturdy cricketer’s career,
Is played in his arm-chair at second hand,
Sans bat, sans ball, sans stumps, sans everything.