Buttered again, by Jingo,Buttered again!Likely to make your lingoAwfully plain!Isn't it rough on the bowler, too,Doing his level to cram on screw?Easiest catches to three of the crewButtered again!Stoddart dispenses stingo,Buttered again!Likely to make your lingoAwfully plain!Four to the Off and four to the On,One on the road to, at least, Hong Kong,One in the air to the ropes is gone—Buttered again!Fate not fit for a dingo—Buttered again!Likely to make your lingoAwfully plain!Bowl you yorker or bowl you a grub,Cover and Wicket your efforts snub—Too much salad—Ah, there is the rub—Buttered again!
Buttered again, by Jingo,Buttered again!Likely to make your lingoAwfully plain!Isn't it rough on the bowler, too,Doing his level to cram on screw?Easiest catches to three of the crewButtered again!Stoddart dispenses stingo,Buttered again!Likely to make your lingoAwfully plain!Four to the Off and four to the On,One on the road to, at least, Hong Kong,One in the air to the ropes is gone—Buttered again!Fate not fit for a dingo—Buttered again!Likely to make your lingoAwfully plain!Bowl you yorker or bowl you a grub,Cover and Wicket your efforts snub—Too much salad—Ah, there is the rub—Buttered again!
Buttered again, by Jingo,Buttered again!Likely to make your lingoAwfully plain!Isn't it rough on the bowler, too,Doing his level to cram on screw?Easiest catches to three of the crewButtered again!
Buttered again, by Jingo,
Buttered again!
Likely to make your lingo
Awfully plain!
Isn't it rough on the bowler, too,
Doing his level to cram on screw?
Easiest catches to three of the crew
Buttered again!
Stoddart dispenses stingo,Buttered again!Likely to make your lingoAwfully plain!Four to the Off and four to the On,One on the road to, at least, Hong Kong,One in the air to the ropes is gone—Buttered again!
Stoddart dispenses stingo,
Buttered again!
Likely to make your lingo
Awfully plain!
Four to the Off and four to the On,
One on the road to, at least, Hong Kong,
One in the air to the ropes is gone—
Buttered again!
Fate not fit for a dingo—Buttered again!Likely to make your lingoAwfully plain!Bowl you yorker or bowl you a grub,Cover and Wicket your efforts snub—Too much salad—Ah, there is the rub—Buttered again!
Fate not fit for a dingo—
Buttered again!
Likely to make your lingo
Awfully plain!
Bowl you yorker or bowl you a grub,
Cover and Wicket your efforts snub—
Too much salad—Ah, there is the rub—
Buttered again!
I'm not a good Cover I freely admit,And I'm not very handy at Point;I'm growing inert and no longer exertThe nimble gymnastical joint:I cannot rejoice when a hurricane cutContuses my shin with its crunch;When fielding to hitters my heart patters-pitters,But trust me to sparkle at lunch!—I radiate freely at lunch.When Blair puts me Longstop without any pads,And delivers occasional Wides,My thumb is askew, and my bosom is blue,And bruises be-smother my sides!I cannot rejoice when a bail comes expressSaluting my pate with a punch;Obesity quivers, there's wringing of withers,But trust me to sparkle at lunch!—I radiate freely at lunch.The National Game is a tonic, I know,And a tonic is very good stuff;I wish, though, the ball were a little less small,And I wish that two pads were enough!I cannot rejoice when a Richardson comesAnd crumbles me up in a bunch!I never like tonic behaving cyclonic,Preferring to sparkle at lunch!—I corruscate freely at lunch.
I'm not a good Cover I freely admit,And I'm not very handy at Point;I'm growing inert and no longer exertThe nimble gymnastical joint:I cannot rejoice when a hurricane cutContuses my shin with its crunch;When fielding to hitters my heart patters-pitters,But trust me to sparkle at lunch!—I radiate freely at lunch.When Blair puts me Longstop without any pads,And delivers occasional Wides,My thumb is askew, and my bosom is blue,And bruises be-smother my sides!I cannot rejoice when a bail comes expressSaluting my pate with a punch;Obesity quivers, there's wringing of withers,But trust me to sparkle at lunch!—I radiate freely at lunch.The National Game is a tonic, I know,And a tonic is very good stuff;I wish, though, the ball were a little less small,And I wish that two pads were enough!I cannot rejoice when a Richardson comesAnd crumbles me up in a bunch!I never like tonic behaving cyclonic,Preferring to sparkle at lunch!—I corruscate freely at lunch.
I'm not a good Cover I freely admit,And I'm not very handy at Point;I'm growing inert and no longer exertThe nimble gymnastical joint:I cannot rejoice when a hurricane cutContuses my shin with its crunch;When fielding to hitters my heart patters-pitters,But trust me to sparkle at lunch!—I radiate freely at lunch.
I'm not a good Cover I freely admit,
And I'm not very handy at Point;
I'm growing inert and no longer exert
The nimble gymnastical joint:
I cannot rejoice when a hurricane cut
Contuses my shin with its crunch;
When fielding to hitters my heart patters-pitters,
But trust me to sparkle at lunch!—
I radiate freely at lunch.
When Blair puts me Longstop without any pads,And delivers occasional Wides,My thumb is askew, and my bosom is blue,And bruises be-smother my sides!I cannot rejoice when a bail comes expressSaluting my pate with a punch;Obesity quivers, there's wringing of withers,But trust me to sparkle at lunch!—I radiate freely at lunch.
When Blair puts me Longstop without any pads,
And delivers occasional Wides,
My thumb is askew, and my bosom is blue,
And bruises be-smother my sides!
I cannot rejoice when a bail comes express
Saluting my pate with a punch;
Obesity quivers, there's wringing of withers,
But trust me to sparkle at lunch!—
I radiate freely at lunch.
The National Game is a tonic, I know,And a tonic is very good stuff;I wish, though, the ball were a little less small,And I wish that two pads were enough!I cannot rejoice when a Richardson comesAnd crumbles me up in a bunch!I never like tonic behaving cyclonic,Preferring to sparkle at lunch!—I corruscate freely at lunch.
The National Game is a tonic, I know,
And a tonic is very good stuff;
I wish, though, the ball were a little less small,
And I wish that two pads were enough!
I cannot rejoice when a Richardson comes
And crumbles me up in a bunch!
I never like tonic behaving cyclonic,
Preferring to sparkle at lunch!—
I corruscate freely at lunch.
When the Doctor pulls up as you pass in the streetYou know he will say:—'Well, Rogers, I hear that you suffered defeat—How many to-day?Not a hundred, I fear; but you always do well,And doubtless you stuck?'It is hard to admit that you could not excelA 'duck.'For the bowling was easy, the wicket was true,And had it not beenThat you thought the slow trundler was guilty ofscrewYou had driven it clean!How galling to read in theSportsmannext day—What horrible luck!—'H. Rogers (the Captain) caught Grinstead, bowled May,A "duck."'But 'tis worse when your Uncle and sweet Cousin BellCome over to watchAll your wonderful deeds as a very great Swell—The hope of the match!And Bell asks your score with a traitorous smile.More knowing than Puck;And you say (looking straight in her eyes all the while)A 'duck.'But when Fogson, your rival, makes Four after Four,And Three after Three,And next a grand drive, that adds six to his score,Right over the tree,Bell's eyes with excitement delightedly flash—She praises his pluck!So you think that the worst of emphatical trashIs 'duck.'
When the Doctor pulls up as you pass in the streetYou know he will say:—'Well, Rogers, I hear that you suffered defeat—How many to-day?Not a hundred, I fear; but you always do well,And doubtless you stuck?'It is hard to admit that you could not excelA 'duck.'For the bowling was easy, the wicket was true,And had it not beenThat you thought the slow trundler was guilty ofscrewYou had driven it clean!How galling to read in theSportsmannext day—What horrible luck!—'H. Rogers (the Captain) caught Grinstead, bowled May,A "duck."'But 'tis worse when your Uncle and sweet Cousin BellCome over to watchAll your wonderful deeds as a very great Swell—The hope of the match!And Bell asks your score with a traitorous smile.More knowing than Puck;And you say (looking straight in her eyes all the while)A 'duck.'But when Fogson, your rival, makes Four after Four,And Three after Three,And next a grand drive, that adds six to his score,Right over the tree,Bell's eyes with excitement delightedly flash—She praises his pluck!So you think that the worst of emphatical trashIs 'duck.'
When the Doctor pulls up as you pass in the streetYou know he will say:—'Well, Rogers, I hear that you suffered defeat—How many to-day?Not a hundred, I fear; but you always do well,And doubtless you stuck?'It is hard to admit that you could not excelA 'duck.'
When the Doctor pulls up as you pass in the street
You know he will say:—
'Well, Rogers, I hear that you suffered defeat—
How many to-day?
Not a hundred, I fear; but you always do well,
And doubtless you stuck?'
It is hard to admit that you could not excel
A 'duck.'
For the bowling was easy, the wicket was true,And had it not beenThat you thought the slow trundler was guilty ofscrewYou had driven it clean!How galling to read in theSportsmannext day—What horrible luck!—'H. Rogers (the Captain) caught Grinstead, bowled May,A "duck."'
For the bowling was easy, the wicket was true,
And had it not been
That you thought the slow trundler was guilty ofscrew
You had driven it clean!
How galling to read in theSportsmannext day—
What horrible luck!—
'H. Rogers (the Captain) caught Grinstead, bowled May,
A "duck."'
But 'tis worse when your Uncle and sweet Cousin BellCome over to watchAll your wonderful deeds as a very great Swell—The hope of the match!And Bell asks your score with a traitorous smile.More knowing than Puck;And you say (looking straight in her eyes all the while)A 'duck.'
But 'tis worse when your Uncle and sweet Cousin Bell
Come over to watch
All your wonderful deeds as a very great Swell—
The hope of the match!
And Bell asks your score with a traitorous smile.
More knowing than Puck;
And you say (looking straight in her eyes all the while)
A 'duck.'
But when Fogson, your rival, makes Four after Four,And Three after Three,And next a grand drive, that adds six to his score,Right over the tree,Bell's eyes with excitement delightedly flash—She praises his pluck!So you think that the worst of emphatical trashIs 'duck.'
But when Fogson, your rival, makes Four after Four,
And Three after Three,
And next a grand drive, that adds six to his score,
Right over the tree,
Bell's eyes with excitement delightedly flash—
She praises his pluck!
So you think that the worst of emphatical trash
Is 'duck.'
Nothing comes amiss,Kicker, Shooter, Yorker,How the Champion bangsLob or cunning Corker!Let the watchers scoldJohnny Briggs or Mold,Censure matters not—Grace is on the Spot!The Champion's on the Spot againTo stop the Gloucester Rot again,And bowling goes to Pot againBefore the King of Cricket!Hornby rubs his head,Fourer after Fourer!Now the pace is warmEven for the Scorer.This is simply joy—Lump it in, Old Boy!Don't she travel just?Grace is on the Bust!The Champion's on the Bust again,'Tis fine to see him Dust again;Don't talk to me of rust again,You grand old King of Cricket!
Nothing comes amiss,Kicker, Shooter, Yorker,How the Champion bangsLob or cunning Corker!Let the watchers scoldJohnny Briggs or Mold,Censure matters not—Grace is on the Spot!The Champion's on the Spot againTo stop the Gloucester Rot again,And bowling goes to Pot againBefore the King of Cricket!Hornby rubs his head,Fourer after Fourer!Now the pace is warmEven for the Scorer.This is simply joy—Lump it in, Old Boy!Don't she travel just?Grace is on the Bust!The Champion's on the Bust again,'Tis fine to see him Dust again;Don't talk to me of rust again,You grand old King of Cricket!
Nothing comes amiss,Kicker, Shooter, Yorker,How the Champion bangsLob or cunning Corker!Let the watchers scoldJohnny Briggs or Mold,Censure matters not—Grace is on the Spot!
Nothing comes amiss,
Kicker, Shooter, Yorker,
How the Champion bangs
Lob or cunning Corker!
Let the watchers scold
Johnny Briggs or Mold,
Censure matters not—
Grace is on the Spot!
The Champion's on the Spot againTo stop the Gloucester Rot again,And bowling goes to Pot againBefore the King of Cricket!
The Champion's on the Spot again
To stop the Gloucester Rot again,
And bowling goes to Pot again
Before the King of Cricket!
Hornby rubs his head,Fourer after Fourer!Now the pace is warmEven for the Scorer.This is simply joy—Lump it in, Old Boy!Don't she travel just?Grace is on the Bust!
Hornby rubs his head,
Fourer after Fourer!
Now the pace is warm
Even for the Scorer.
This is simply joy—
Lump it in, Old Boy!
Don't she travel just?
Grace is on the Bust!
The Champion's on the Bust again,'Tis fine to see him Dust again;Don't talk to me of rust again,You grand old King of Cricket!
The Champion's on the Bust again,
'Tis fine to see him Dust again;
Don't talk to me of rust again,
You grand old King of Cricket!
When Surrey ladled out defeat,Who did it?When Notts and Yorks and Kent were beat,Who did it?Lohmann did—George Lohmann—Something like a yeoman,Neither fast nor slow man,George!Surrey wants you—come again!England wants you—cross the Main!Say Good-bye toCapetown sky, youBest of Georges, come again!Though bowlers good as you should come(Not likely!)From you to them shall fancy roam?Not likely!Soldier, sailor, tinker,Ev'ry proper thinker,Knows you are a clinker,George!Surrey wants you—come you back!England wants you—homeward tack!Say Good-bye toCapetown sky, youBest of Georges, come you back!May warmer heavens make you wholeFor Surrey!How men would roar to see you bowlFor Surrey!Nurs'd and help'd and mended,Truly kept and tended,Come and be our splendidGeorge!Shuter wants you home again!England wants you—cross the Main!Say Good-bye toCapetown sky, youGeorge of Georges, come again!
When Surrey ladled out defeat,Who did it?When Notts and Yorks and Kent were beat,Who did it?Lohmann did—George Lohmann—Something like a yeoman,Neither fast nor slow man,George!Surrey wants you—come again!England wants you—cross the Main!Say Good-bye toCapetown sky, youBest of Georges, come again!
When Surrey ladled out defeat,Who did it?When Notts and Yorks and Kent were beat,Who did it?Lohmann did—George Lohmann—Something like a yeoman,Neither fast nor slow man,George!
When Surrey ladled out defeat,
Who did it?
When Notts and Yorks and Kent were beat,
Who did it?
Lohmann did—George Lohmann—
Something like a yeoman,
Neither fast nor slow man,
George!
Surrey wants you—come again!England wants you—cross the Main!Say Good-bye toCapetown sky, youBest of Georges, come again!
Surrey wants you—come again!
England wants you—cross the Main!
Say Good-bye to
Capetown sky, you
Best of Georges, come again!
Though bowlers good as you should come(Not likely!)From you to them shall fancy roam?Not likely!Soldier, sailor, tinker,Ev'ry proper thinker,Knows you are a clinker,George!Surrey wants you—come you back!England wants you—homeward tack!Say Good-bye toCapetown sky, youBest of Georges, come you back!May warmer heavens make you wholeFor Surrey!How men would roar to see you bowlFor Surrey!Nurs'd and help'd and mended,Truly kept and tended,Come and be our splendidGeorge!Shuter wants you home again!England wants you—cross the Main!Say Good-bye toCapetown sky, youGeorge of Georges, come again!
Though bowlers good as you should come(Not likely!)From you to them shall fancy roam?Not likely!Soldier, sailor, tinker,Ev'ry proper thinker,Knows you are a clinker,George!
Though bowlers good as you should come
(Not likely!)
From you to them shall fancy roam?
Not likely!
Soldier, sailor, tinker,
Ev'ry proper thinker,
Knows you are a clinker,
George!
Surrey wants you—come you back!England wants you—homeward tack!Say Good-bye toCapetown sky, youBest of Georges, come you back!
Surrey wants you—come you back!
England wants you—homeward tack!
Say Good-bye to
Capetown sky, you
Best of Georges, come you back!
May warmer heavens make you wholeFor Surrey!How men would roar to see you bowlFor Surrey!Nurs'd and help'd and mended,Truly kept and tended,Come and be our splendidGeorge!
May warmer heavens make you whole
For Surrey!
How men would roar to see you bowl
For Surrey!
Nurs'd and help'd and mended,
Truly kept and tended,
Come and be our splendid
George!
Shuter wants you home again!England wants you—cross the Main!Say Good-bye toCapetown sky, youGeorge of Georges, come again!
Shuter wants you home again!
England wants you—cross the Main!
Say Good-bye to
Capetown sky, you
George of Georges, come again!
In dazzling pads Bombastes wentTo give the bowling Beans;He stalked along in sweet content,Triumphant in his 'teens.He launched his muscle at a Slow,But heard the timber clink;Bombastes homeward sped and said,'Whatever do you think?Bowled by a beastly lob, confound it!Jumped in too far and hit all round it!Easy enough to now expound it—Bowled by a beastly lob!'At luncheon-time Bombastes swore,By oaths not one, nor twain,That he would make the fielders soreWhen he went in again!A second time the hero strodeWith Allsopp in his head;Bombastes missed the first; he cursedConsumedly, and said—'Bowled by a beastly lob, confound it!Jumped in too far and hit all round it!Easy enough to now expound it—Bowled by a beastly lob!'May ev'ry braggart talking bigSecure the Double Duck!By Roman grape and Grecian figI wish him dirty luck!May underhanded artfulnessPrecipitate his end,His only comfort be, at tea,To moan before a friend—'Bowled by a beastly lob, confound it!Jumped in too far and hit all round it!Easy enough to now expound it—Bowled by a beastly lob!'
In dazzling pads Bombastes wentTo give the bowling Beans;He stalked along in sweet content,Triumphant in his 'teens.He launched his muscle at a Slow,But heard the timber clink;Bombastes homeward sped and said,'Whatever do you think?Bowled by a beastly lob, confound it!Jumped in too far and hit all round it!Easy enough to now expound it—Bowled by a beastly lob!'
In dazzling pads Bombastes wentTo give the bowling Beans;He stalked along in sweet content,Triumphant in his 'teens.He launched his muscle at a Slow,But heard the timber clink;Bombastes homeward sped and said,'Whatever do you think?Bowled by a beastly lob, confound it!Jumped in too far and hit all round it!Easy enough to now expound it—Bowled by a beastly lob!'
In dazzling pads Bombastes went
To give the bowling Beans;
He stalked along in sweet content,
Triumphant in his 'teens.
He launched his muscle at a Slow,
But heard the timber clink;
Bombastes homeward sped and said,
'Whatever do you think?
Bowled by a beastly lob, confound it!
Jumped in too far and hit all round it!
Easy enough to now expound it—
Bowled by a beastly lob!'
At luncheon-time Bombastes swore,By oaths not one, nor twain,That he would make the fielders soreWhen he went in again!A second time the hero strodeWith Allsopp in his head;Bombastes missed the first; he cursedConsumedly, and said—'Bowled by a beastly lob, confound it!Jumped in too far and hit all round it!Easy enough to now expound it—Bowled by a beastly lob!'May ev'ry braggart talking bigSecure the Double Duck!By Roman grape and Grecian figI wish him dirty luck!May underhanded artfulnessPrecipitate his end,His only comfort be, at tea,To moan before a friend—'Bowled by a beastly lob, confound it!Jumped in too far and hit all round it!Easy enough to now expound it—Bowled by a beastly lob!'
At luncheon-time Bombastes swore,By oaths not one, nor twain,That he would make the fielders soreWhen he went in again!A second time the hero strodeWith Allsopp in his head;Bombastes missed the first; he cursedConsumedly, and said—'Bowled by a beastly lob, confound it!Jumped in too far and hit all round it!Easy enough to now expound it—Bowled by a beastly lob!'
At luncheon-time Bombastes swore,
By oaths not one, nor twain,
That he would make the fielders sore
When he went in again!
A second time the hero strode
With Allsopp in his head;
Bombastes missed the first; he cursed
Consumedly, and said—
'Bowled by a beastly lob, confound it!
Jumped in too far and hit all round it!
Easy enough to now expound it—
Bowled by a beastly lob!'
May ev'ry braggart talking bigSecure the Double Duck!By Roman grape and Grecian figI wish him dirty luck!
May ev'ry braggart talking big
Secure the Double Duck!
By Roman grape and Grecian fig
I wish him dirty luck!
May underhanded artfulnessPrecipitate his end,His only comfort be, at tea,To moan before a friend—'Bowled by a beastly lob, confound it!Jumped in too far and hit all round it!Easy enough to now expound it—Bowled by a beastly lob!'
May underhanded artfulness
Precipitate his end,
His only comfort be, at tea,
To moan before a friend—
'Bowled by a beastly lob, confound it!
Jumped in too far and hit all round it!
Easy enough to now expound it—
Bowled by a beastly lob!'
The Champion Grace to the match has gone,In the British ranks you'll find him,His magic bat he has girded on,And his pads are slung behind him!'Ground ofLords,' said the Bearded Pard,'Though all the rest amaze thee,My stumps for thee I'll keenly guard,One faithful bat shall praise thee!'The Champion smacked, and theTerror'sreignCould not bring his wicket under;He made the Cornstalk's cunning vain,For he smote each ball like thunder!And said, 'No screw shall baffle me,Thou soul of bowling bravery,This game shall prove old England free,She shall never sink in slavery!'
The Champion Grace to the match has gone,In the British ranks you'll find him,His magic bat he has girded on,And his pads are slung behind him!'Ground ofLords,' said the Bearded Pard,'Though all the rest amaze thee,My stumps for thee I'll keenly guard,One faithful bat shall praise thee!'The Champion smacked, and theTerror'sreignCould not bring his wicket under;He made the Cornstalk's cunning vain,For he smote each ball like thunder!And said, 'No screw shall baffle me,Thou soul of bowling bravery,This game shall prove old England free,She shall never sink in slavery!'
The Champion Grace to the match has gone,In the British ranks you'll find him,His magic bat he has girded on,And his pads are slung behind him!'Ground ofLords,' said the Bearded Pard,'Though all the rest amaze thee,My stumps for thee I'll keenly guard,One faithful bat shall praise thee!'
The Champion Grace to the match has gone,
In the British ranks you'll find him,
His magic bat he has girded on,
And his pads are slung behind him!
'Ground ofLords,' said the Bearded Pard,
'Though all the rest amaze thee,
My stumps for thee I'll keenly guard,
One faithful bat shall praise thee!'
The Champion smacked, and theTerror'sreignCould not bring his wicket under;He made the Cornstalk's cunning vain,For he smote each ball like thunder!And said, 'No screw shall baffle me,Thou soul of bowling bravery,This game shall prove old England free,She shall never sink in slavery!'
The Champion smacked, and theTerror'sreign
Could not bring his wicket under;
He made the Cornstalk's cunning vain,
For he smote each ball like thunder!
And said, 'No screw shall baffle me,
Thou soul of bowling bravery,
This game shall prove old England free,
She shall never sink in slavery!'
When red-nosed Winter takes the road,An icicle his walking-stick;When frost is on the woodman's load,And snow is falling fast and thick,Come, lusty youth and sapless eld,Let's make a circle round the blazeAnd talk of stumps,Of nasty bumps,That flew and came in sunny days.For Cricket is played again, again,At freezing time in Hull or Bath;When summer's done the game's not gone—There's Cricket on the Hearth!Here's Jones from Rugby, Eton Jack,And Grandpapa who, long ago,Loved hitting when the Field was slack,And crumped the bowling, swift or slow!No more he's nimble on the green,But what a history he tellsOf Surrey men,And hits for ten,And heaps of most tremendous Swells!For Cricket is played again, again,At freezing time in Hull or Bath;When summer's done the game's not gone—There's Cricket on the Hearth!The girls may call to Hide-and-Seek,And lovely lasses take the floor;But we discuss the Lob and Sneak,The Canvas, Umpire, Over, Score!How great a game to fill July,May, June, and August with delights,Yet in the frostBe never lost,But stir the blood on nipping nights!For Cricket is played again, again,At freezing time in Hull or Bath;When Summer's done the game's not gone—There's Cricket on the Hearth!
When red-nosed Winter takes the road,An icicle his walking-stick;When frost is on the woodman's load,And snow is falling fast and thick,Come, lusty youth and sapless eld,Let's make a circle round the blazeAnd talk of stumps,Of nasty bumps,That flew and came in sunny days.For Cricket is played again, again,At freezing time in Hull or Bath;When summer's done the game's not gone—There's Cricket on the Hearth!
When red-nosed Winter takes the road,An icicle his walking-stick;When frost is on the woodman's load,And snow is falling fast and thick,Come, lusty youth and sapless eld,Let's make a circle round the blazeAnd talk of stumps,Of nasty bumps,That flew and came in sunny days.For Cricket is played again, again,At freezing time in Hull or Bath;When summer's done the game's not gone—There's Cricket on the Hearth!
When red-nosed Winter takes the road,
An icicle his walking-stick;
When frost is on the woodman's load,
And snow is falling fast and thick,
Come, lusty youth and sapless eld,
Let's make a circle round the blaze
And talk of stumps,
Of nasty bumps,
That flew and came in sunny days.
For Cricket is played again, again,
At freezing time in Hull or Bath;
When summer's done the game's not gone—
There's Cricket on the Hearth!
Here's Jones from Rugby, Eton Jack,And Grandpapa who, long ago,Loved hitting when the Field was slack,And crumped the bowling, swift or slow!No more he's nimble on the green,But what a history he tellsOf Surrey men,And hits for ten,And heaps of most tremendous Swells!For Cricket is played again, again,At freezing time in Hull or Bath;When summer's done the game's not gone—There's Cricket on the Hearth!The girls may call to Hide-and-Seek,And lovely lasses take the floor;But we discuss the Lob and Sneak,The Canvas, Umpire, Over, Score!How great a game to fill July,May, June, and August with delights,Yet in the frostBe never lost,But stir the blood on nipping nights!For Cricket is played again, again,At freezing time in Hull or Bath;When Summer's done the game's not gone—There's Cricket on the Hearth!
Here's Jones from Rugby, Eton Jack,And Grandpapa who, long ago,Loved hitting when the Field was slack,And crumped the bowling, swift or slow!No more he's nimble on the green,But what a history he tellsOf Surrey men,And hits for ten,And heaps of most tremendous Swells!For Cricket is played again, again,At freezing time in Hull or Bath;When summer's done the game's not gone—There's Cricket on the Hearth!
Here's Jones from Rugby, Eton Jack,
And Grandpapa who, long ago,
Loved hitting when the Field was slack,
And crumped the bowling, swift or slow!
No more he's nimble on the green,
But what a history he tells
Of Surrey men,
And hits for ten,
And heaps of most tremendous Swells!
For Cricket is played again, again,
At freezing time in Hull or Bath;
When summer's done the game's not gone—
There's Cricket on the Hearth!
The girls may call to Hide-and-Seek,And lovely lasses take the floor;But we discuss the Lob and Sneak,The Canvas, Umpire, Over, Score!How great a game to fill July,May, June, and August with delights,Yet in the frostBe never lost,But stir the blood on nipping nights!For Cricket is played again, again,At freezing time in Hull or Bath;When Summer's done the game's not gone—There's Cricket on the Hearth!
The girls may call to Hide-and-Seek,
And lovely lasses take the floor;
But we discuss the Lob and Sneak,
The Canvas, Umpire, Over, Score!
How great a game to fill July,
May, June, and August with delights,
Yet in the frost
Be never lost,
But stir the blood on nipping nights!
For Cricket is played again, again,
At freezing time in Hull or Bath;
When Summer's done the game's not gone—
There's Cricket on the Hearth!
O Statesmen who devise and plotTo keep the White above the Black,Who tremble when your bolt is shotLest love and loyalty grow slack,There's not a deed of craftsmanship,There's not a thing Red Tape can do,Shall knit the Hindoo with the CeltAs much as this—the Cambridge Blue!No million acres of Despatch,No tanks of governmental ink,Can force a native not to watchFor days when England's star may sink.Build factories to weave the tape,Make tables for the rice and dew—Do all your best, and you shall missThe binding force of Cambridge Blue!An Indian gentleman to-dayHas staled your tortoise policy;And thousands cheer to see him play,A splendid batsman, quick and free.A game shall dwindle all your cares,A clever catch and runs a few!A Parliament may fail indeed,But not the band of Cambridge Blue!
O Statesmen who devise and plotTo keep the White above the Black,Who tremble when your bolt is shotLest love and loyalty grow slack,There's not a deed of craftsmanship,There's not a thing Red Tape can do,Shall knit the Hindoo with the CeltAs much as this—the Cambridge Blue!No million acres of Despatch,No tanks of governmental ink,Can force a native not to watchFor days when England's star may sink.Build factories to weave the tape,Make tables for the rice and dew—Do all your best, and you shall missThe binding force of Cambridge Blue!An Indian gentleman to-dayHas staled your tortoise policy;And thousands cheer to see him play,A splendid batsman, quick and free.A game shall dwindle all your cares,A clever catch and runs a few!A Parliament may fail indeed,But not the band of Cambridge Blue!
O Statesmen who devise and plotTo keep the White above the Black,Who tremble when your bolt is shotLest love and loyalty grow slack,There's not a deed of craftsmanship,There's not a thing Red Tape can do,Shall knit the Hindoo with the CeltAs much as this—the Cambridge Blue!
O Statesmen who devise and plot
To keep the White above the Black,
Who tremble when your bolt is shot
Lest love and loyalty grow slack,
There's not a deed of craftsmanship,
There's not a thing Red Tape can do,
Shall knit the Hindoo with the Celt
As much as this—the Cambridge Blue!
No million acres of Despatch,No tanks of governmental ink,Can force a native not to watchFor days when England's star may sink.Build factories to weave the tape,Make tables for the rice and dew—Do all your best, and you shall missThe binding force of Cambridge Blue!
No million acres of Despatch,
No tanks of governmental ink,
Can force a native not to watch
For days when England's star may sink.
Build factories to weave the tape,
Make tables for the rice and dew—
Do all your best, and you shall miss
The binding force of Cambridge Blue!
An Indian gentleman to-dayHas staled your tortoise policy;And thousands cheer to see him play,A splendid batsman, quick and free.A game shall dwindle all your cares,A clever catch and runs a few!A Parliament may fail indeed,But not the band of Cambridge Blue!
An Indian gentleman to-day
Has staled your tortoise policy;
And thousands cheer to see him play,
A splendid batsman, quick and free.
A game shall dwindle all your cares,
A clever catch and runs a few!
A Parliament may fail indeed,
But not the band of Cambridge Blue!
'Tis the last ball of SummerLeft rolling alone;All his artful companionsAre smitten and gone;No trace of his kindred,No shooter is seenTo relate all the gloriesOf Briggs and Nepean.I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,To curl on the stumps;Since thy brothers were slogged so,Partake of their thumps!Thus kindly I smack theeAfar in the heavens,Where the mates of thy tribe wentFor sixes and sevens!And soon may there follow,Ere sinews decay,A capital seasonTo get thee away!For muscles must wither,Our cricket be flown;And we shall inhabitPavilions, and groan!
'Tis the last ball of SummerLeft rolling alone;All his artful companionsAre smitten and gone;No trace of his kindred,No shooter is seenTo relate all the gloriesOf Briggs and Nepean.I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,To curl on the stumps;Since thy brothers were slogged so,Partake of their thumps!Thus kindly I smack theeAfar in the heavens,Where the mates of thy tribe wentFor sixes and sevens!And soon may there follow,Ere sinews decay,A capital seasonTo get thee away!For muscles must wither,Our cricket be flown;And we shall inhabitPavilions, and groan!
'Tis the last ball of SummerLeft rolling alone;All his artful companionsAre smitten and gone;No trace of his kindred,No shooter is seenTo relate all the gloriesOf Briggs and Nepean.
'Tis the last ball of Summer
Left rolling alone;
All his artful companions
Are smitten and gone;
No trace of his kindred,
No shooter is seen
To relate all the glories
Of Briggs and Nepean.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,To curl on the stumps;Since thy brothers were slogged so,Partake of their thumps!Thus kindly I smack theeAfar in the heavens,Where the mates of thy tribe wentFor sixes and sevens!
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To curl on the stumps;
Since thy brothers were slogged so,
Partake of their thumps!
Thus kindly I smack thee
Afar in the heavens,
Where the mates of thy tribe went
For sixes and sevens!
And soon may there follow,Ere sinews decay,A capital seasonTo get thee away!For muscles must wither,Our cricket be flown;And we shall inhabitPavilions, and groan!
And soon may there follow,
Ere sinews decay,
A capital season
To get thee away!
For muscles must wither,
Our cricket be flown;
And we shall inhabit
Pavilions, and groan!
Printed by T. and A.Constable, Printers to Her Majestyat the Edinburgh University Press
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
In Verse.
Country Muse.In two volumes. (David Nutt.)
Orchard Songs.(Elkin Mathews and John Lane.)
In Prose.
A June Romance.(George E. Over, Rugby.The cheaper edition nearly ready.)
SOME CRITICAL OPINIONS.
'Dowsabella lives again and cowslips are in bloom.'—'A Fogey' inThe Contemporary Review.
'There is a true country freshness in his lyrics,—birds sing and the breeze blows in them; his Clarindas and other country maidens have the rosy bloom of health and outdoor life, and his verse is musical and finished, and free from rustic affectations.'—Edinburgh Review.
'The verse of Mr. Gale, perhaps more truly and constantly than the verse of any of our younger living poets, stands the Miltonic test of poetry, in proving itself "simple, sensuous, passionate."'—FromThe Poets and Poetry of the Century.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTESMinor punctuation and printer errors repaired.
Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired.