’Twas there that Spofforth smashed the stumps,
And made the bails to fly;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous Victory.
“Not even Grace, of matchless skill
(No worthier in the land),
The ‘Demon’s’ onslaughts could resist,
His awful speed withstand;
By lightning smit, as falls the oak,
The wickets fell beneath his stroke!