The Reverend Mullineux

I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight,

And his height at 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!”

“You's 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 him over too!

Did n'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.