To tramp for miles in bloody shoes,
To smirch their souls, to crack their thews,
Thenlet the poet rail his best,
My Hearts!
Aye, if our social state be planned
Devoid of giant games of ball,
Macaulay's visitor will stand
The earlier on the crumbled wall.
Nerve, daring, sprightliness, and pluck
Improve by noble exercise;
The wish to soar above the ruck,
The power to laugh at dirty luck
And face defeat with sparkling eyes,
My Braves!
By George, there goes the supper-bell!
And yet your duffing Uncle Bob
Has never told you what befell
When all his team got out for blob.
So much for bad poetic gas
That gets my ancient dander up!
Well, to the banquet! What is crass
Shall deeply drown in radiant Bass
While we as Vikings greatly sup,
My Hearts!
I refuse to find attractions
In the ancient Roman native;
I am sick to death of fractions,
And of verbs that take the dative:
It is mine to be recorder
Of a boy's congested brain, Sir,
With the pitch in perfect order
And the weather like champagne, Sir!
I—the sport of conjugations—
I am cooped up as a lodger
Where I serve out mental rations
To a proudly backward dodger.
While the two of us are dreaming
Of the canvas and the creases,
Close we sit together, scheming
How to pull an ode to pieces.
Even now in London's gabble
Memory's magic tricks the senses!
Plain I hear the streamlet babble,
Smell the tar on country fences:
Down the road Miss Grey from Marlett
Skirts the fox-frequented thicket,
In her belt a rose of scarlet,
In her eyes the love of cricket.
There's my mother with her ponies
Underneath Sir Toby's beeches,
Pulling up to share with cronies
News of grapes and plums and peaches:
Many a gaffer stops to fumble
At his forelock as she passes,
While the children cease to tumble
Frocks and blouses in the grasses.
Though my body stays with duty
Here to work a sum or rider,
Mother's magnet and her beauty
Draw my soul to sit beside her!
Ah, what luck if I were able
There to play once more in flannels,
Free from all this littered table,
Virgil's farmyard, Ovid's annals!
There's a loop of leather handle
Peeping underneath the sofa!
Is tuition worth the candle
When the conscience turns a loafer?
'Tis the rich and backward Boarder
Proves indeed the Tutor's bane, Sir,
When the turf's in ripping order
And the weather like champagne, Sir!
"To throw your hands above your head
And wring your mouth in piteous wise
Is not a plan," the Captain said,
"With which I sympathise.
And with your eyes to ape a duck
That's dying in a thunderstorm,
Because you deprecate your luck,
Is not the best of form.
"The fact is, Johnson, I am tired
Of all this posing for a faint,
Because you think the stump required
Another coat of paint.
As greatly would you vex my soul,
And drag decorum from the Game,
If in the block your head you'd roll,
Or stand upon the same.
"This trick of striking attitudes,
Inelegant for men to see,
Will, to be candid, foster feuds
Between yourself and me.
On manners of the best this sport,
By right of glory, makes a call,
And he who will not as he ought
Should never play at all.
"Now Luck is lean, now Luck Is fat,
And wise men take her as she comes:
The Bowler may be sure the Bat
Will share the sugarplums.
So never wriggle, nor protest,
Nor eye the zenith in disgust,
But, Johnson, bowl your level best,
And recollect, what must be, must!"
(Written for W.G. Grace's Fiftieth Anniversary.)
When Arthur and his Table Round
Thought lusty thumps the best of sport, Sir,
And cups and cuffs, for all but muffs,
Were just the code the nobles taught, Sir,
Their jests were coarse, and swift their coursers,
Their throats were hoarse and strong as hawsers;
And they would shout a loud refrain
The while they pricked across a plain,
Observe this phrase just once again—
The while they pricked across a plain.
Then 'twas the sport of Arthur's Court
To hammer friendly helms with zeal, Sir,
Lo, sounding clear for all to hear,
The Tourney rang with lyres of steel, Sir!
These demigods of matchless story
For Love laid on, laid on for Glory!
Their horses flew like thunderbolts,
Or cut a brace of demi-voltes.
Observe this phrase. The mettled colts
Would cut a brace of demi-voltes.
When Arthur and his Table Round
Had lain in dust for many years, Sir,
Came cricket bats and beaver hats,
The stumps, the ball, the burst of cheers, Sir!
Thus horse-play broke on Time's rough breakers
And gentler games were hero-makers.
Men ceased to crave for olden times,
Whose daily deeds were modern crimes,
But guarded stumps, and wrote their rhymes,
And helped to keep the land from crimes.
While Arthur and his Table Round
In dreams were jousting once again, Sir,
The wit of man conceived a plan
To marry willow-wood and cane, Sir.
Thereat the Stung became the Stinger;
Thereat arrived the Century-Bringer!
Mere muscle yielded to the wrist
Poised lightly over clenching fist.
Observe the phrase. I here insist
Mere muscle yielded to the wrist.
The knights of Arthur's Table True
Wore helmets, gorgets, plumes, and greaves, Sir;
While Tourneys stayed, big sport was played
Without the joy of turned-up sleeves, Sir!
But Cricket showed in armoured showing
Without these noble players knowing,
For when at Beauty's door they tapped
They oft were at the wicket snapped.
Be sure of this. With rage was mapped
Each face when at the wicket snapped.
Remembering the Table Round,
Cricket at last begot a King, Sir.
One day was born the Bowler's Thorn,
The Bat of Bats for Rhyme to sing, Sir.
As for the Lady Ball, he swept her
From pole to pole with willow sceptre!
Old Mother England was the place,
The pitch the throne, the monarch Grace!
Off with your hats! Your brims abase
To greet his Royal Highness, Grace!
Ah, for some kingly match in Town,
To give the scene its fitting ode, Sir!
Could Pindar fire the athletic lyre,
A truant from his bright abode, Sir,
How would he chant the Chief heroic,
The trundler's hope become zeroic,
The drives from liberal shoulders poured,
The changing history of the Board!
Long may the champion's pith be scored
In figures leaping on the Board!
Strong in the arms as Hercules,
For club, a bat within his hand, Sir,
Behold him there, the foe's despair,
Persuade the bowling to the stand, Sir!
What if some wrinkles now take leases
Upon his brow? He's used to creases!
And, young in muscle, still can laugh
At fifty on Time's Telegraph.
This Toast, good comrades, let us quaff—
Three figures on his Telegraph!
My boy, bethink you ere you fling
Upon my heart a cloud of gloom.
Pause, pause a moment ere you bring
Your father to an early tomb
By playing Golf! For if you seek
To gravel your astounded sire,
Desert the wicket for the cleek,
Prefer the bagpipes to the lyre!
My boy, along your veins is poured
Heroic blood full fit to boast;
For annals of the scoring-board
Have made our name a cricket Toast.
If now in pride or pique you choose
To make this scandalous default,
How many bygone Cricket Blues
Will issue, raging, from their vault!
My boy, the game that's big and bright,
The game that stands all games above,
And towers to such a glorious height,
Deserves the summit of your love!
Is this a time for dapper spats,
When foes arrive to test our worth?
Beg pardon of your gloves and bats,
And play the kingliest game on earth!
Let those who will believe the Gods
On high Olympus do not travel
Along the lane that Progress plods,
The tricks of mortals to unravel:
Let them believe who will they shun
The average of C.B. Fry,
Or never from their lilied park
A little nearer Clifton run