Are beautiful—but for that bend in the back—
To those the young furies call "fogies."
You have not to "sprint" o'er some acres of grass,
To "slog" or to scamper, to "scrummage" or "pass,"
At the risk of your ribs, or "rheumatics";
You have not to treat your opponents like foes,
Or "go for" your rival's shin-bone or his nose,
As do the aforesaid fanatics.
But how pleasant the "green" in the cool of the day,
The tankard of stingo, the yard of white clay,