The poem
I'd reckon his weight as eight-stun-eight, And his height as five-foot-two, With a face as plain as an eight-day clock And a walk as brisk as a bantam-cock -- Game as a bantam, too, Hard and wiry and full of steam, That's the boss of the English Team, Reverend Mullineux!
Makes no row when the game gets rough -- None of your "Strike me blue!" "Yous wants smacking across the snout!" Plays like a gentleman out-and-out -- Same as he ought to do. "Kindly remove from off my face!" That's the way that he states his case, Reverend Mullineux.
Kick! He can kick like an army mule -- Run like a kangaroo! Hard to get by as a lawyer-plant, Tackles his man like a bull-dog ant -- Fetches hom over too! Didn't the public cheer and shout Watchin' him chuckin' big blokes about, Reverend Mullineux!
Scrimmage was packed on his prostrate form, Somehow the ball got through -- Who was it tackled our big half-back, Flinging him down like an empty sack, Right on our goal-line too? Who but the man that we thought was dead, Down with a score of 'em on his head, Reverend Mullineux.