More Cricket Songs - Part 5

Part 5

_(W.G. Grace's XI. versus XXII. of Bath.)_

Nothing went right. The Champion cut And drove and glanced, and cut again, Till every bowler we possessed Deep down within his smarting breast Half wished he'd lost that early train!

_Dobbin went on with Sneaks, Robin appeared with Tweaks, And Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard, Contributed Lightning Streaks!_

Nothing went right. The Champion's bat Seemed twice the breadth of postern door.

The leather flew at pace immense To crackle on the boundary fence, Acknowledged by the public roar.

_Dobbin went on with Tweaks, Robin obliged with Sneaks, And Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard, Exhibited Lightning Streaks!_

Nothing went right. At last, at last A bell (than Angelus more fair!) Rang respite for the fieldsmen who, By sprinting hard from twelve to two, Had scarce a ragged breath to spare.

_Robin abstained from Sneaks, Dobbin abandoned Tweaks, And Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard, Prohibited Lightning Streaks!_

Luncheon went right. The weary team Found benches, beer, and salad sweet.

But asking blessing was too bad, Because they all were somewhat sad From too much Grace before their meat!

_Health to your n.o.ble name, Monarch in fact and fame, From twenty-two hearty lads in a party Broadened and bronzed by the Game!_


When the run of the bowler is measured, And he, with brows knotted, Bowls fierce at your timber-yard treasured, To pot, or be potted, If the ball to the bone that is funny Fly swift as a swallow, And you squeal like a terrified bunny As agonies follow:

Then, then is a capital season, More fit than another, Loose language of silly unreason In courage to smother.

Clean speech is too frequently shamed For Cricket to shame it!

One word is too often exclaimed For you to exclaim it!


Beside the pillar-box a girl Sells daffodils in golden bunches, And with an ap.r.o.n full of Spring Stays men a moment from their lunches: Some fill their hands for love of bloom, To others Cupid hints a reason; But as for me, I buy because The flowers suggest the Cricket season!

Although I trouble not to seek A maiden proud to wear my favour, Right glad am I to change my pence For blooms, and smell their wholesome savour; For as I carry blossoms home-- Sisters of gold with golden sisters-- My heart is thumping at the thought Of pads and bails and slow leg-twisters.

My only sweetheart is a bag-- A faithful girl of dark brown leather, Who's travelled many a mile with me In half a hundred sorts of weather!

Once more to clasp your friendly hand, To tramp along by Hope attended, Dreaming of glances, drives, and cuts, My Dear Old Girl, how truly splendid!


We had a fellow in the School Whose batting simply was a dream: A dozen times by keeping cool And hitting hard he saved the Team.

But oh! his fielding was so vile, As if by witch or goblin cursed, That he was called by Arthur Style, King b.u.t.terlegs the Worst!

At tea-time, supper, breakfast, lunch, For many disappointed days, We reasoned with him in a bunch, Imploring him to mend his ways.

He listened like a saint, with lips As if in desperation pursed; Then gave three fourers in the Slips-- King b.u.t.terlegs the Worst!

'Twas after this the Captain tried, In something warmer than a pet, To comfort his lamenting Side By pelting Curtice in a net.

Aware of his tremendous power, The Captain used it well at first, And peppered only half-an-hour King b.u.t.terlegs the Worst!

But half-an-hour at such a range-- From such a Captain!--was enough To work so prompt and blest a change That Curtice ceased to be a m.u.f.f.

When from his bed at last he came, Where fifty bruises had been nursed, He was no more a public shame, Nor b.u.t.terlegs the Worst!


He was a person most unkempt, And answered to the name of Cust.

He had a frenzied ma.s.s of hair, A little redder than red rust, And trousers so exceeding short It looked as if by mounting high They meant unceasingly to try To change to knickers on the sly.

He was a person whom a Bat Could view without the least distrust.

He caught me at the fifth attempt-- Imagine my profound disgust!

For if the ball had gone to hand I had not felt the least unrest; But, as it happened (Fate knows best!) It struck him smartly on the chest.

I cannot tell you how he squirmed And capered on the greensward there, Until at last he took the ball (Or so it seemed) from out his hair, And meekly rubbed the coming bruise.

Thus was I humbled in the dust Because of Albert Edward Cust.

Imagine my profound disgust!

Here's to the freckles and fielding and fun, Here's to the joy that we ponder; Here's to the Game that will glow in the sun When the babes of our babies are--Yonder!

~Rivers' Popular Novels~

~The House of Merrilees~. ARCHIBALD MARSHALL. _[Now Ready_.

~The Unequal Yoke~. Mrs. H.H. PENROSE. _[Now Ready_.

~The Discipline of Christine~. Mrs. BARRe GOLDIE. _[Now Ready_.

~Peter Binney, Undergraduate~. ARCHIBALD MARSHALL. _[Now Ready_.

~Peace on Earth~. REGINALD TURNER. _[Now Ready_.