Not yet the camp-stool period comes,
With feelings precious close to tears;
Still at your choice the leather hums--
Wait till you total fifty years.

What nonsense, Charles!
In you I see--
You, lord of curl on shaven plots, Sir--
A magazine of Fourers clean
Prepared to bruise the railings. Lots, Sir!
I have a dog's-eared birthday list
That makes me mock your silly fears
And hope for centuries from your wrist--
Wait till you come to fifty years.




THE COMMENTATOR.


The throstle in the lilac,
Not far beyond the Nets,
Upon a spray of purple
His beak severely whets:
He hears the players calling,
He wonders what they're at,
As thunder frequent Yorkers
Against the stubborn bat.