A manly game it is, I think,

Although in private be it spoken,

While at a scrimmage I don't shrink,

That bones may be too often broken.

I snapped my clavicle last week,

Just like the rib of an umbrella;

And sprained my ankle, not to speak

Of something wrong with my patella.

Last season, too, my leg I broke,

And lay at home an idle dreamer,

It's not considered quite a joke

To contemplate a broken femur.

And when, despite the doctor's hints,

Again at foot-ball I had tussles,

I found myself once more in splints,

With damaged gastronomic muscles.

Some three times every week my head,

Is cut, contused, or sorely shaken;

My friends expect me brought home dead,

But up to now I've saved my bacon.

But what are broken bones, my boys,

Compared with noble recreation?

The scrimmages and all the joys

Of Rugby or Association!