Part 2
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.'
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 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 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 HOPE OF SURREY
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 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 to Capetown sky, you Best of Georges, come you back!
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 to Capetown sky, you George of Georges, come again!
BOMBASTES
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 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 big Secure the Double Duck! By Roman grape and Grecian fig I wish him dirty luck!
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!'
ENGLAND _V._ AUSTRALIA
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 of _Lords_,' 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 the _Terror's_ reign 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!'
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 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 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!
DARK 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 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-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!
THE LAST BALL OF SUMMER
'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 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 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 Majesty at 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' in _The 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."'--From _The Poets and Poetry of the Century_.
* * * * *
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=.