Bill swears 'is crock once run third in some 'Andicap. Wouldn't 'e like to 'ave owned it, and run it?
I 'ave drove cast-offs myself before now, broken-down old bits of blood. Ah! it's rummy
How "cracks"—of all sorts—come down in this world. It's fur easier, p'r'aps, to be cocktail or dummy.
Still I like "form," and I cannot help backing it, when there's a chance, in a oss most pertikler.
But all kinds o' sport cum excitin' to me, down from racin' to crioketin',—I'm not a stickler.
Few things more nicer, when summer sets in, than a chance fare out Kennington way in the day-time.
Bless yer. I've sit by that old Oval hoarding two hours by St. Mark's—ah! and more, during play-time.
Perched on my box with a heasy leg cock-over, I'm quite at 'ome in my private pavilion,
(That's wot I call it), a puffing my briar. Ah! cricket's the sport, after all, for the million.
Slap over from 'Arleyford Road to the Gasworks, I sweep the whole field and pay nothink. Wy, bless yer,