More Cricket Songs | Page 3

fact is, Johnson, I am tired?Of all this posing for a faint,?Because you think the stump required?Another coat of paint.?As greatly would you vex my soul,?And drag decorum from the Game,?If in the block your head you'd roll,?Or stand upon the same.
"This trick of striking attitudes,?Inelegant for men to see,?Will, to be candid, foster feuds?Between yourself and me.?On manners of the best this sport,?By right of glory, makes a call,?And he who will not as he ought?Should never play at all.
"Now Luck is lean, now Luck Is fat,?And wise men take her as she comes:?The Bowler may be sure the Bat?Will share the sugarplums.?So never wriggle, nor protest,?Nor eye the zenith in disgust,?But, Johnson, bowl your level best,?And recollect, what must be, must!"
THE TWO KINGS.
_(Written for W.G. Grace's Fiftieth Anniversary.)_
When Arthur and his Table Round?Thought lusty thumps the best of sport, Sir,?And cups and cuffs, for all but muffs,?Were just the code the nobles taught, Sir,?Their jests were coarse, and swift their coursers,?Their throats were hoarse and strong as hawsers;?And they would shout a loud refrain?The while they pricked across a plain,?Observe this phrase just once again--?The while they pricked across a plain.
Then 'twas the sport of Arthur's Court?To hammer friendly helms with zeal, Sir,?Lo, sounding clear for all to hear,?The Tourney rang with lyres of steel, Sir!?These demigods of matchless story?For Love laid on, laid on for Glory!?Their horses flew like thunderbolts,?Or cut a brace of demi-voltes.?Observe this phrase. The mettled colts?Would cut a brace of demi-voltes.
When Arthur and his Table Round?Had lain in dust for many years, Sir,?Came cricket bats and beaver hats,?The stumps, the ball, the burst of cheers, Sir!?Thus horse-play broke on Time's rough breakers?And gentler games were hero-makers.?Men ceased to crave for olden times,?Whose daily deeds were modern crimes,?But guarded stumps, and wrote their rhymes,?And helped to keep the land from crimes.
While Arthur and his Table Round?In dreams were jousting once again, Sir,?The wit of man conceived a plan?To marry willow-wood and cane, Sir.?Thereat the Stung became the Stinger;?Thereat arrived the Century-Bringer!?Mere muscle yielded to the wrist?Poised lightly over clenching fist.?Observe the phrase. I here insist?Mere muscle yielded to the wrist.
The knights of Arthur's Table True?Wore helmets, gorgets, plumes, and greaves, Sir;?While Tourneys stayed, big sport was played?Without the joy of turned-up sleeves, Sir!?But Cricket showed in armoured showing?Without these noble players knowing,?For when at Beauty's door they tapped?They oft were at the wicket snapped.?Be sure of this. With rage was mapped?Each face when at the wicket snapped.
Remembering the Table Round,?Cricket at last begot a King, Sir.?One day was born the Bowler's Thorn,?The Bat of Bats for Rhyme to sing, Sir.?As for the Lady Ball, he swept her?From pole to pole with willow sceptre!?Old Mother England was the place,?The pitch the throne, the monarch Grace!?Off with your hats! Your brims abase?To greet his Royal Highness, Grace!
Ah, for some kingly match in Town,?To give the scene its fitting ode, Sir!?Could Pindar fire the athletic lyre,?A truant from his bright abode, Sir,?How would he chant the Chief heroic,?The trundler's hope become zeroic,?The drives from liberal shoulders poured,?The changing history of the Board!?Long may the champion's pith be scored?In figures leaping on the Board!
Strong in the arms as Hercules,?For club, a bat within his hand, Sir,?Behold him there, the foe's despair,?Persuade the bowling to the stand, Sir!?What if some wrinkles now take leases?Upon his brow? He's used to creases!?And, young in muscle, still can laugh?At fifty on Time's Telegraph.?This Toast, good comrades, let us quaff--?Three figures on his Telegraph!
THE APPEAL.
My boy, bethink you ere you fling?Upon my heart a cloud of gloom.?Pause, pause a moment ere you bring?Your father to an early tomb?By playing Golf! For if you seek?To gravel your astounded sire,?Desert the wicket for the cleek,?Prefer the bagpipes to the lyre!
My boy, along your veins is poured?Heroic blood full fit to boast;?For annals of the scoring-board?Have made our name a cricket Toast.?If now in pride or pique you choose?To make this scandalous default,?How many bygone Cricket Blues?Will issue, raging, from their vault!
My boy, the game that's big and bright,?The game that stands all games above,?And towers to such a glorious height,?Deserves the summit of your love!?Is this a time for dapper spats,?When foes arrive to test our worth??Beg pardon of your gloves and bats,?And play the kingliest game on earth!
THE OLYMPIANS.
Let those who will believe the Gods?On high Olympus do not travel?Along the lane that Progress plods,?The tricks of mortals to unravel:?Let them believe who will they shun?The average of C.B. Fry,?Or never from their lilied park?A little nearer Clifton run?To watch with joy the crimson lark?By Jessop bullied to the sky.
They love the Game. So warm they glow,?Not seldom rise imperial quarrels;?And not so many moons ago?Jove boxed with zeal Apollo's laurels.?The question ran, Was Arthur Mold?Unfairly stigmatised by muffs,?Or did he play a dubious