Only more so. My eye and a band-box, a rare bit o' stuff he must be!
As nigh forty-seven as don't matter, as big as a barrel, and yet
A-piling 'is centries like pea-shellin'! Sound Double Gloster, you bet!
I sor him at Lord's, mate, last Thursday, five 'ours and a arf in the sun,
A smiting and running as if, at 'is age, with 'is weight, it was fun!
'Ot, Charlie? My collar flopped limp, and I lapped lemon-squoshes—a number;
And there wos 'e tottling 'is Thousand, as cool as a bloomin' cowcumber.
I wouldn't ha' done it for tuppence; no, not with the cheerings chucked in,
Although the Pervilion fair rose at 'im. 'Ow gents of clarss, and with tin,
And no need to it, Charlie, choose Cricket, at ninety degrees in the shyde,