The club is old

And brown with rust;

I know you'll say; --

"If play you must

With such a relic,

Scarred with age,

Why don't you go

And straight engage

Some patient lad,

With emery

To rub it bright

As clubs should be?"

Scorn not white hairs

Time soon must reap,

Nor mock the lines

That furrow deep

The brow, the cheeks

Of veteran,

Who still may be

A better man

Than many youthts,

Strong, keen, awake,

But who have yet

Their fight to make.

So this old club

Shall never see

The day when scars

Of victory

Are rubbed away

By vandal hand;

His day is past,

But let him stand

Alone and honored

In my kit --

Lest I forget,

He's done his bit!