Norman Rowland Gale

A Boundary

  What nonsense, Charles!
              Though rather stiff,
  And foreign from the style of Twenty,
  There's still enough of cricket stuff
  Remaining for the pastime. Plenty!
  Why, such a creed as now you preach
  Is only fit for scoffs and jeers;
  Wait till you lose your wind and reach--
    Wait till you come to fifty years.

  What nonsense, Charles!
              You still can put
  The figures up by bounds and leaps, Sir;
  There's little myth about the pith
  You carry in your muscle. Heaps, Sir!
  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.