More Cricket Songs | Page 7

do!
And why so harshly did he pelt
With forks a fresh and timorous Celt

Afraid to utter what he felt?
Arthur had got his Blue!
A LONG GRACE.
_(W.G. Grace's XI. versus XXII. of Bath.)_
Nothing went right. The Champion cut
And drove and glanced, and
cut again,
Till every bowler we possessed
Deep down within his
smarting breast
Half wished he'd lost that early train!
_Dobbin went on with Sneaks,
Robin appeared with Tweaks,
And
Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard,
Contributed Lightning
Streaks!_
Nothing went right. The Champion's bat
Seemed twice the breadth of
postern door.
The leather flew at pace immense
To crackle on the
boundary fence,
Acknowledged by the public roar.
_Dobbin went on with Tweaks,
Robin obliged with Sneaks,
And
Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard,
Exhibited Lightning Streaks!_

Nothing went right. At last, at last
A bell (than Angelus more fair!)

Rang respite for the fieldsmen who,
By sprinting hard from twelve to
two,
Had scarce a ragged breath to spare.
_Robin abstained from Sneaks,
Dobbin abandoned Tweaks,
And
Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard,
Prohibited Lightning Streaks!_
Luncheon went right. The weary team
Found benches, beer, and salad
sweet.
But asking blessing was too bad,
Because they all were
somewhat sad
From too much Grace before their meat!
_Health to your noble name,
Monarch in fact and fame,
From
twenty-two hearty lads in a party
Broadened and bronzed by the
Game!_
REMEMBER, PLEASE!
When the run of the bowler is measured,
And he, with brows knotted,

Bowls fierce at your timber-yard treasured,
To pot, or be potted,

If the ball to the bone that is funny
Fly swift as a swallow,
And you
squeal like a terrified bunny
As agonies follow:
Then, then is a capital season,
More fit than another,
Loose
language of silly unreason
In courage to smother.
Clean speech is
too frequently shamed
For Cricket to shame it!
One word is too
often exclaimed
For you to exclaim it!
THE FORERUNNERS.
Beside the pillar-box a girl
Sells daffodils in golden bunches,
And
with an apron full of Spring
Stays men a moment from their lunches:

Some fill their hands for love of bloom,
To others Cupid hints a
reason;
But as for me, I buy because
The flowers suggest the
Cricket season!

Although I trouble not to seek
A maiden proud to wear my favour,

Right glad am I to change my pence
For blooms, and smell their
wholesome savour;
For as I carry blossoms home--
Sisters of gold
with golden sisters--
My heart is thumping at the thought
Of pads
and bails and slow leg-twisters.
My only sweetheart is a bag--
A faithful girl of dark brown leather,

Who's travelled many a mile with me
In half a hundred sorts of
weather!
Once more to clasp your friendly hand,
To tramp along by
Hope attended,
Dreaming of glances, drives, and cuts,
My Dear Old
Girl, how truly splendid!
NET PRACTICE.
We had a fellow in the School
Whose batting simply was a dream:

A dozen times by keeping cool
And hitting hard he saved the Team.

But oh! his fielding was so vile,
As if by witch or goblin cursed,

That he was called by Arthur Style,
King Butterlegs the Worst!
At tea-time, supper, breakfast, lunch,
For many disappointed days,

We reasoned with him in a bunch,
Imploring him to mend his ways.

He listened like a saint, with lips
As if in desperation pursed;

Then gave three fourers in the Slips--
King Butterlegs the Worst!
'Twas after this the Captain tried,
In something warmer than a pet,

To comfort his lamenting Side
By pelting Curtice in a net.
Aware
of his tremendous power,
The Captain used it well at first,
And
peppered only half-an-hour
King Butterlegs the Worst!
But half-an-hour at such a range--
From such a Captain!--was enough

To work so prompt and blest a change
That Curtice ceased to be a
muff.
When from his bed at last he came,
Where fifty bruises had
been nursed,
He was no more a public shame,

Nor Butterlegs the
Worst!

THE CATCH OF THE SEASON.
He was a person most unkempt,
And answered to the name of Cust.

He had a frenzied mass of hair,
A little redder than red rust,
And
trousers so exceeding short
It looked as if by mounting high
They
meant unceasingly to try
To change to knickers on the sly.
He was a person whom a Bat
Could view without the least distrust.

He caught me at the fifth attempt--
Imagine my profound disgust!

For if the ball had gone to hand
I had not felt the least unrest;
But,
as it happened (Fate knows best!)
It struck him smartly on the chest.
I cannot tell you how he squirmed
And capered on the greensward
there,
Until at last he took the ball
(Or so it seemed) from out his
hair,
And meekly rubbed the coming bruise.
Thus was I humbled in
the dust
Because of Albert Edward Cust.
Imagine my profound
disgust!
Here's to the freckles and fielding and fun,
Here's to the joy that we
ponder;
Here's to the Game that will glow in the sun
When the
babes of our babies are--Yonder!

~Rivers' Popular Novels~
Crown 8vo., 6_s_.

~The House of Merrilees~. ARCHIBALD MARSHALL. _[Now
Ready_.
~The Unequal Yoke~. Mrs. H.H. PENROSE. _[Now Ready_.
~The Discipline of Christine~. Mrs. BARRÉ GOLDIE. _[Now Ready_.
~Peter Binney, Undergraduate~. ARCHIBALD MARSHALL. _[Now

Ready_.
~Peace on Earth~. REGINALD TURNER. _[Now Ready_.