More Cricket Songs | Page 6

wise
When Ada's ignorance is bliss!
A BOUNDARY.
What nonsense, Charles!
Though rather stiff,
And foreign from the style of Twenty,
There's
still enough of cricket stuff
Remaining for the pastime. Plenty!

Why, such a creed as now you preach
Is only fit for scoffs and jeers;

Wait till you lose your wind and reach--
Wait till you come to fifty
years.

What nonsense, Charles!
You still can put
The figures up by bounds and leaps, Sir;
There's
little myth about the pith
You carry in your muscle. Heaps, Sir!
Not
yet the camp-stool period comes,
With feelings precious close to tears;

Still at your choice the leather hums--
Wait till you total fifty years.
What nonsense, Charles!
In you I see--
You, lord of curl on shaven plots, Sir--
A magazine of
Fourers clean
Prepared to bruise the railings. Lots, Sir!
I have a
dog's-eared birthday list
That makes me mock your silly fears
And
hope for centuries from your wrist--
Wait till you come to fifty years.
THE COMMENTATOR.
The throstle in the lilac,
Not far beyond the Nets,
Upon a spray of
purple
His beak severely whets:
He hears the players calling,
He
wonders what they're at,
As thunder frequent Yorkers
Against the
stubborn bat.
And as the rank half-volley
Its due quietus gets,
The bird begins to
carol
A greeting to the Nets:
Amazed at noisy kissing
Of ball and
wooden blade,
In rivalry he whistles
A ballad unafraid.
Right jocund is the music
That, poured in lovely jets,
Accompanies
superbly
The heroes in the Nets;
And sweet the startled pauses

Amid the royal song
That come when shout together
The
drive-delighted throng.
The greatness of the uproar
Benumbs him, and he lets
His pulsing
bosom ponder
The tumult in the Nets;
But soon afresh, while
warbling
His comment on the game,
He puts all human songsters--

Quite easily!--to shame.

Thou Herrick in the lilac,
The damp of evening wets
Upon our
shoes the pipeclay,
And bids us leave the Nets;
But come again
to-morrow
To mingle with our joy
The magic learnt in Eden

When Time was but a boy!
LUCKY LADS.
See in bronzing sunshine
Twenty-two good fellows,
Such as help
the world along,
Such as Cricket mellows!
Health and heartiness
and joy
Come to them for capture,
Lucky lads, plucky lads,

Relishing the rapture!
Watch the flying fieldsman,
Keen to save the fourer,
Gallop past the
wooden box
Sacred to the scorer!
Think you demi-gods of Greece

Matched him in their story?
Lucky lad, plucky lad,
Sprinting
hard for glory!
Watch the hitting hero
Loosely clad in flannel--
There's a figure to
adorn
Any sculptor's panel!
Every inch of him enjoys
Sharing in
the tussle,
Lucky lad, plucky lad,
Speed and grit and muscle!
See in bronzing sunshine
Thousands of good fellows,
Such as roll
the world along,
Such as Cricket mellows!
These shall keep the
Motherland
Safe amid her quarrels,
Lucky lads, plucky lads,

Trained to snatch at laurels!
CRICKET IN THE GARDEN.
Before the aproned nurse arrives,
To tell of soap and tub and sponges,

My nephew, fierce and ruddy, drives,
Disgraceful edges, callous
lunges.
Twenty auriculas declare
The zeal of his peculiar magic,


Till every aunt is in despair,
And even Job (the cat) looks tragic.
Down goes a tulip's noble head!
(Poor Auntie Nell is nearly crying!)

And now a stately stock is dead,
And now a columbine is dying.


Vainly the cook with female lobs
Desires to hit the egg-box wicket;

And not among the housemaid's jobs--
'Tis very plain--is garden
cricket.
Whack on the bee-hive goes the ball!
"That's six!" screams Noel to
the scorer.
A foxglove, steepled best of all,
Now sinks beneath a
flying fourer.
Two to the lad's-love; and beyond
The lavender just
half-a-dozen;
And TWELVE for dropping in the pond
A rank
half-volley from his cousin!
To see my pinks give up the ghost
Is what no longer can be suffered:

Before I lose the scented host
This game, like candles, must be
snuffered.
Noel, at ninety-two, not out,
Is carried to the nursery,
screaming;
And later with a precious pout
Lies in his bed of down
and dreaming.
There shall his Century be achieved,
Larkspurs and tiger-lilies
humbled,
Geraniums of their fire bereaved,
And calceolarias torn
and tumbled.
With fairy craft from dusk to dawn
Quaint Puck
himself may bowl half-volleys,
But I have vowed, by love and lawn,

To weed one thistle from my follies!
THE PRINCE, BATTING.
As out of a cannon comes the ball!
Quickly it flies to the human wall.

Didn't it go with a will and a whiz?
How lovely it is! How lovely it
is!
Four to the east, and four to the west!
Arrowy shots at the Umpire's
chest!
Placid the sinewy batsman beams--
How easy it seems! How
easy it seems
Watch! For a ball we could barely poke
The master hand and the
radiant stroke!
Glances and cuts and drives and hooks--
How easy it
looks! How easy it looks!

Now is the time we may all forget
Paper and books, for the Prince is
set.
Here in the grass, with our work at heel,
How happy we feel!
How happy we feel!
THE REASON.
Now why did Arthur Hoare pull out
A sovereign with a happy shout

And give it rashly to his scout,
Who almost had a fit?
Why of a sudden did he fling
A hard-boiled egg at Eustace Ling,

Forgetting how an egg can sting
The person who is hit?
Why after dinner did he turn
In fury on his room, and burn
His old
oak chairs with unconcern?--
A stupid thing to