Andrew Barton Paterson

The Reverend Mullineux

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, 
Reverend Mullineux! 

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, 
Reverend Mullineux. 

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, 
Reverend Mullineux! 

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, 
Reverend Mullineux.