It's not your "devil," JOKIM, that I dread;
That's easy, when you're "bowling with your head,"
But when you sling them in, as you've done lately,
Swift but not straight, why, then you vex me greatly.
Your pet fast bumpy ones, wide of the wicket,
Perhaps look showy, but they are not Cricket.
Bowler. Oh, bother! You're the crossest of old frumps.
Why, bless you, SMITH, I stood behind the stumps
Long before you put gloves on!
Wicket-keeper. I dare say,