Leastways, anyhow, it looks it. O, I tell yer, it's a prize.
Yaller-backed, Bill, and cane-'andled, and its got a sort o' feel,
As yer swing it wot reminds yer of a Stoddart or a Steel.
Last Saturday as ever wos I turned out afore six,
And practised in our back yard, wiv three lumps o' deal for "sticks."
Young Polly she bowled to me, and I drove 'er, and I cut,
And "swiped over the Pervilion"—which I mean our water-butt.
Poll can do a fair round-armer for a girl and no mistake,
And she'll 'ave you, middle-stumpo, if yer don't look wide awake.
'Twos the day of our School Match, Bill, and our gaffer, Mister Blore,