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!
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,
own with a score of 'em on his head,
Reverend Mullineux.