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,
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,
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,
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,