A record ne'er equalled by mortal.
"My beamish boy"—of nigh forty-seven—
There isn't a cheerier sight under heaven
Than W. G. at the wicket.
When your "vorpal" bat "goes snicker-snack,"
Punch loves to lie, with a tree at his back,
And watch what he calls Cricket.
And now, as a topper of thirty years,
After many hopes, and a few faint fears.
(Which Punch never shared for a jiffy.)