Is by a hundred fidgets shaken;
Upon the tablecloth he drums,
Condemns the toast, pooh-poohs the bacon:
But when at last the boy arrives,
Not his to scan the market prices;
Though liner sinks or palace burns,
The Major lives by rule, and turns
To cricket first, and then the crisis.

Though getting grey and rather stiff,
The Major loves a long day's outing,
And gives a military sniff
When lads complain of lengthy scouting.
Each summer morn at break of day
From bed before the lark he tumbles,
And if the mercury be vile
There carries nearly half a mile
The Indian vigour of his grumbles.

When winter brings its snow and ice,
As well as divers pains and twinges,
The Major's language gathers spice,
And oftentimes his temper singes.
On Christmas day he oils his bats,
And, on the crimson hearthrug scoring,
Through Fancy's slips he cuts the ball,
Or lifts her over Fancy's wall,
Till all the ghostly ring is roaring!

And when at length the day is near