To watch with joy the crimson lark
By Jessop bullied to the sky.
They love the Game. So warm they glow,
Not seldom rise imperial quarrels;
And not so many moons ago
Jove boxed with zeal Apollo's laurels.
The question ran, Was Arthur Mold
Unfairly stigmatised by muffs,
Or did he play a dubious prank?
Venus herself began to scold,
And Gods by dozens on a bank
Profanely took to fisticuffs!
When on the level mead of Hove
Elastic-sided Ranjitsinhji
With bowlers neatly juggles, Jove
Of clapping palms is never stingy.
Ambrosia stands neglected; wine
To crack the skull of Hector spills
While Lockwood cudgels brawn and brain;
And when the Prince leaves ninety-nine,
The cheers go valleywards like rain,
And hip-hurrah among the hills!
Prone on the lawn in merry mobs,
They note the polished art of Trumper,
The Surrey Lobster bowling lobs,
The anxious wriggles of the Stumper.
'Tis not (believe me) theirs to sneer
At what the modern mortal loves,
But theirs to copy noble sport;
And radiant hawkers every year
Do splendid trade in bats and gloves
With Jupiter and all his Court!
Sixty years since the game begun, Sir,
Sixty years since I took the crease!
Sixty years in the rain an' sun, Sir,
Death's been tryin' to end my lease.
Oh, but he's sent me down some corkers,
Given me lots of nasty jobs;
Mixed length-balls with his dazzlin' Yorkers,
Kickers an' shooters, grubs an' lobs!
Here I've stood, an' I've met him smilin',
Takin' all of his nasty bumps;
Grantin' at times his luck was rilin'
When reg'lar fizzers tickled the stumps.
Playin' him straight an' storin' breath, Sir,
Closely watchin' his artful wrist,
I've had a rare old tussle with Death, Sir,
Slammin' the loose 'uns, smotherin' twist!
Still I know I'm as keen as ever
Tacklin' the stuff he likes to send,
Cuttin' an' drivin' his best endeavour
While pluck an' muscle an' sight befriend.
I'm slow, in course; an' at times a stitch, Sir,
Makes me muddle the stroke I planned;
But I'm not yet ready to leave the pitch, Sir,
For Lord knows what in the Better Land!
Some dirty day, when eyes are dimmer,
Old Death will have his chance to scoff;
For up his sleeve he's got a trimmer
Bound to come a yard from the off!
It'll do me down! But if he's a chap, Sir,
Able to tell a job well done,
No doubt he'll give his foe a clap, Sir,
Walkin' out of the crease an' sun.
'Tis more than forty years I've tasted
Sweet and bitter supplied by Luck,
Never thinkin' an hour was wasted,
Whether I blobbed or whether I stuck.
Long as I had some kind of wicket,
'Twas never the wrong 'un, fast or slow;
An' I thank my stars I took to Cricket
Seven-an'-fifty years ago!
The game's been missus an' kids to me, Sir—
Aye, an' a rare good girl she's been!
I met her first at my father's knee, Sir,
An' married her young on Richmond Green.
An' as she's proved so true a lover,
Never inclined to scratch or scold,
When the long day's fun at last is over,
I'll love her still in the churchyard cold!
I've never twisted my brain with thinkin'
The way life goes in the world above,
But lessons here there ain't no blinkin'
Make me guess that the Umpire's Love!
God knows I've muffed some easy chances
Of doing good, like a silly lout;
But because He's fairer nor any fancies
I'm not in a funk of hearin', "Out!"
Many a mate of splice and leather,
Out in the stiff autumnal weather,
There we stood by his grave together,
After his innings;
All on a day of misty yellow
Watching in grief a grim old fellow,
Death, who diddles both young and mellow,
Pocket his winnings.
Flew from his hand the matchless skimmer!
Breaking a yard, the destined trimmer,
Beating the bat and the eyes grown dimmer,
Shattered the wicket!
Slow to the dark Pavilion wending,
His head on his breast, with Mercy friending,
The batsman walked to his silent ending,
Finished with cricket.
Whether or not that gaunt Professor
Noting his man; that stark Assessor
Of faulty play in the bat's possessor
Clapped for his foeman,
We who had seen that figure splendid
Guarding the stumps so well defended
Wept and cheered when by craft was ended
Innings and yeoman!
Not long before the ball that beat him,
All ends up, went down to meet him,
Tie him up in a knot, defeat him
Once and for ever,
He told his mates that he wished, when hoary
Time put an end to his famous story,
To trudge with his old brown bag to Glory,
Separate never!
There on the clods the bag was lying!
There was the rope for the handle's tying!
How can you wonder we all were crying,
Utterly broken?
Scarred and shabby it went. We espied it
Deep where the grave so soon would hide it,
Safe on his heart, with his togs inside it—
Tenderest token!
There we stood by his grave together,
Out in the stiff autumnal weather,
Many a mate of splice and leather,
After his innings;
All on a day of misty yellow
Watching in pain a grabbing fellow,
Death, who diddles both young and mellow,
Pocket his winnings.
Dear Tom, I do not like your look,
Your brows are (see the poets) bent;
You're biting hard on Tedium's hook,
You're jaundiced, crumpled, footled, spent.
What's worse, so mischievous your state
You have no pluck to try and trick it.
Here! Cram this cap upon your pate
And come with me to Doctor Cricket!
Don't eye decanters on the shelf.
Your tongue's already thick with fur!
Up, heart! and be your own dear self
As when we chummed at Winchester.
Destroy these pasteboard dancing girls;
This theatre-bubble, come, Tom, prick it!
Love more the off and leg-break curls
Arranged for us by Doctor Cricket!
You feel worn out at twenty-two?
Your day's a thing of thirst and gloom?
Old chap, of course I'll see you through,
But—drop that rot about the tomb!
Let's overhaul your bag. A pair
Of noble bats to guard a wicket!
Out, Friend, to breathe the sunny air,
And wring the hand of Doctor Cricket!
Be healed; and shun the flabby gang
That tricked your taste with cards and drink,
When out of independence sprang
A silly downfall. Think, Tom, think!
While stupid lads debase their worth
In feather-headed Folly's thicket,
Get back your muscle and your mirth
Beneath the eye of Doctor Cricket!
'Tis sometimes Fortune's little joke
With vinegar to brim the cup;
And on the grass this fickle Lass
Makes pennies come the wrong side up.
But though a Head instead of Tail
Is sure to greet my anxious call,
'Tis better to have tossed,
And lost,
Than never to have tossed at all.
To do our best in spite of luck,
To stop or gallop for the drive,
To seek our fun in bronzing sun,
Shall cause both head and heart to thrive.
And though the penny's face I choose
That next the turf is bound to fall,
'Tis better to have tossed,
And lost,
Than never to have tossed at all.
For though we field the whole day long
Hope's spark refuses to expire;
A wily lob's successful job
At once renews the slackening fire.
Be Spartan, then! Crave not to flirt
With Tennis and her female ball!
'Tis better to have tossed,
And lost,
Than never to have tossed at all.
The Major, till the paper comes,
Is by a hundred fidgets shaken;
Upon the tablecloth he drums,
Condemns the toast, pooh-poohs the bacon:
But when at last the boy arrives,
Not his to scan the market prices;
Though liner sinks or palace burns,
The Major lives by rule, and turns
To cricket first, and then the crisis.
Though getting grey and rather stiff,
The Major loves a long day's outing,
And gives a military sniff
When lads complain of lengthy scouting.
Each summer morn at break of day
From bed before the lark he tumbles,
And if the mercury be vile
There carries nearly half a mile
The Indian vigour of his grumbles.
When winter brings its snow and ice,
As well as divers pains and twinges,
The Major's language gathers spice,