The vertebræ creak and the ribs seem to jar,
When a man bends his back--after fifty--
If only to pull off his boots; he at length
Finds that curve in his spine is a strain on the strength
Of which middle-age must be thrifty.

But Bowls! Yes, my boy, it's a jolly old game,
Though athletic fanatics might vote it too tame,
But sense is not baffled by bogies.
The Emerald Green and the "bowls" and the "jack,"
Are beautiful--but for that bend in the back--
To those the young furies call "fogies."

You have not to "sprint" o'er some acres of grass,
To "slog" or to scamper, to "scrummage" or "pass,"
At the risk of your ribs, or "rheumatics";
You have not to treat your opponents like foes,
Or "go for" your rival's shin-bone or his nose,
As do the aforesaid fanatics.

But how pleasant the "green" in the cool of the day,
The tankard of stingo, the yard of white clay,
And the play and the chaff of good fellows!
Although not a betting man howls out the odds,
And no ring of mad backers--like gallery "gods"---
About us insensately bellows.

Yes, PAYN, the "crank in," and the "kiss of the Jack,"
_All_--save, as you say, that darned bend in the back--
About the old game is delightful.