More Cricket Songs | Page 3

the rich and backward Boarder
Proves indeed the Tutor's bane, Sir,

When the turf's in ripping order
And the weather like champagne,
Sir!
A WIGGING.
"To throw your hands above your head
And wring your mouth in
piteous wise
Is not a plan," the Captain said,
"With which I
sympathise.
And with your eyes to ape a duck
That's dying in a
thunderstorm,
Because you deprecate your luck,
Is not the best of
form.
"The 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