In some, the mind plays chiefest part, In others, muscles rule; In Billiards muscle joins with art, Combining head and hand and heart, In pyramids and pool.
So Winter, hail! Though thou be keen, Thou'rt not so keen as Peall, As he plays the spot on cloth of green, And makes such breaks as ne'er were seen, Until our senses reel!
Hail, Roberts, Mitchell, Dawson, too, And others of your sort!— Punch welcomes you, the leading few, But thinks of the Rest as he gives the Cue:— "Uphold your noble sport!—
"Preserve its reputation free From every act that's mean.— Conform to honour's just decree, And curse the man (and curst be he!) Who fouls the table green!"
What wonders will the year reveal? A "Half-a-million Up?" A hundred-thousand points to Peall Will Roberts yield—then show his heel, And win the Diamond Cup?
Or greater marvel still, I wot— Will players cease to growl When fluke occurs, or when you "pot" The white, and swear it's mean (it's not) And loud "Whitechapel!" howl?
All such as these would Punch beseech— (He dwells on this behest)— To drop such foolish ways, and preach To all "good form," that happy each May go for his Long Rest!
