And oftentimes his temper singes.
On Christmas day he oils his bats,
And, on the crimson hearthrug scoring,
Through Fancy's slips he cuts the ball,
Or lifts her over Fancy's wall,
Till all the ghostly ring is roaring!
And when at length the day is near
For Death to bowl the Major's wicket,
(The Major swears he has no fear
That Paradise is short of cricket!)
If in the time of pad and crease
His soul receives its last advices,
With final paper on his bed
I know the Major will be wed
To cricket first—and then the crisis!
She understands the game no more
Than savages the sun's eclipse;
For all she knows the bowler throws,
And Square-Leg stands among the Slips:
And when in somersaults a stump
Denotes a victim of the game,
Her lovely throat begets a lump,
Her cheeks with indignation flame.
She scarce can keep her seat, and longs
To cheer the fallen hero's fate;
Her fingers clench upon the bench
As if it were the Trundler's pate!
Because this rascal's on the spot
Her passion fails to be concealed;
She asks me why the wretch is not
Immediately turned off the field.
But if the batsmen force the pace,
From me she quickly takes her cue;
Perceives the fun of stolen run,
The overthrow that makes it two.
And as the ball bombards the fence,
Or rattles on the Scorers' hut,
She claps with me the Drive immense,
And prettily applauds the Cut.
Divided at the heart, I seek
With skill to serve a double call:
Though great the Game, it were a shame
To miss her bosom's rise-and-fall.
Cupid and Cricket, unafraid,
Must sink their dread of partnership,
Nor fear to join as stock-in-trade
The boxwood bail, the honeyed lip.
Time was when bigotry compelled
A total worship of the game,
Before the test had pierced my breast,
Before the Idol-breaker came.
But suddenly the sky let down,
Escaped from heaven in pink and gold,
A child to conquer by her gown
The sport so starkly loved of old.
Sweet are her little cries, and sweet
The puzzled look her forehead wears;
For all she knows the Umpire goes
Away to Leg to say his prayers.
And yet, so velvety her eyes,
I even find a charm in this,
And think, How foolish to be wise
When Ada's ignorance is bliss!
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 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!
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!
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!
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,