Here lies, bowl'd out by Death's unerring ball, A cricketer
renowned, by name John Small; But though his name
was small, yet great was his fame, For nobly did he
play the'noble game'. His life was like
his inningslong and good; Full ninety summers
had Death withstood, At length the
ninetieth winter camewhen (Fate Not leaving him one
solitary mate) This last of
Hambledonians, old John Small, Gave up his bat and
ballhis leather, wax and all.