AH, the raptures of onlookers round the Egyptian Hall's green baize

When John Roberts with his grand feats billiard lovers did amaze,

There where Piccadilly's life-stream blends its din with tuneful chimes.

Elsewhere now these are experienced—in Antipodean climes,

Where the kangaroo hops briskly 'mid the bushes of the plain,

And the eucalyptus myrtle yields its tannin —wealth amain.

Yes, the memories of matches in that focus of the cue,

Bring on feelings tinged with sadness while old pleasures they renew.

In the temple of high billiards, where our Roberts was the Priest,

Those who gathered there to worship ever had a mental feast.

Him they saw performing wonders in that ever-crowded Hall,

With his cannon amid hazards, like Lord Bobs in the Transvaal.

His compeers Peall, Cook, Dawson there in turn were to be seen,

Also others, each displaying different tactics on the green ;

And on them with admiration Statesmen, Grandees, Princes gazed,

Amateurs of every station saw their feats and loudly praised.

Never more there will those champions hold their tourneys, and display

Dainty cannons, sparkling winners—yes, the best of brilliant play.

Ah, the sight of this arena, their fine form lifelike recalls,

With the plaudits they drew ever from spectators in the stalls.

It reminds me of their bickerings, their rejoicing and their tears,

Of their conflicts, triumphs, failures, in bygone regretted years.

Gone are now the famous table, marker's board, and cues, and all,

From the erst attractive parterre of the Egyptian Billiard Hall.