Or halma, or spillikins (horrible sport!),
Or any amusement that's female and pokey,
And flatly objects to behave as he ought!
I know him of old. He is lazy and fat,
Instead of this Thing, fit for punishment drastic,
Give, Fortune, a son who is nimble and keen;
A bright-hearted sample of human elastic,
As fast as an antelope, supple and clean;
Far other than he in whose dimples there lodge
Significant signs of inordinate stodge.

Ay, give me the lad who is eager and chubby,
A Stoddart in little, a hero in bud;
Who'd think it a positive crime to grow tubby,
And dreams half the night he's a Steel or a Studd!
There's the youth for my fancy, all youngsters above--
The boy for my handshake, the lad for my love!




THE DARK BOWLER.


I know that Bowler, dark and lean,
Who holds his tongue, and pegs away,
And never fails to come up keen,
However hard and straight I play.
Spinning and living, from his hand
The leather, full of venom, leaps;