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diff --git a/13167-0.txt b/13167-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1a04223 --- /dev/null +++ b/13167-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1554 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13167 *** + +MORE CRICKET SONGS + +by Norman Gale + +Author of "Cricket Songs" "Barty's Star" "A Country Muse" And other +works. + +1905 + + + + +DEAR JOHN DENTON, + +Not long ago you reminded me that once, when you were a boy and I was +a schoolmaster, I was angry with you because you pouted all through a +lesson in arithmetic. Let bygones be bygones, and accept as a proof of +my continuing friendship the dedication of this little volume, in +which there are no other sums than those of the Telegraph. + +Most sincerely yours, + +NORMAN GALE. + + + + + Here's to the lad with his useful Fifteen, + Here's to the Bowler that's thrifty, + Here's to the Bat who is Lord of the Green + With his frequent and thundering Fifty! + + + + +For their courtesy in allowing him to reprint some of these songs the +Author thanks the Editor of _The Westminster Gazette_, Prince +Ranjitsinhji, Mr. James Bowden, the Editor of _The Country_, and the +Editor of _The Sun_. + + +OILING +THE GOLDEN GAME +THE FEMALE BOY +THE DARK BOWLER +UNCLE BOB INDIGNANT +THE TUTOR'S LAMENT +A WIGGING +THE TWO KINGS +THE APPEAL +THE OLYMPIANS +THE OLD PROFESSIONAL +FIVE YEARS AFTER +DOCTOR CRICKET +PHILOSOPHY +THE ENTHUSIAST +CRICKET AND CUPID +A BOUNDARY +THE COMMENTATOR +LUCKY LADS +CRICKET IN THE GARDEN +THE PRINCE, BATTING +THE REASON +A LONG GRACE +REMEMBER, PLEASE! +THE FORERUNNERS +NET PRACTICE +THE CATCH OF THE SEASON + + + + + +OILING. + +_(A Song In and Out of Season.)_ + + + Excuse me, Sweetheart, if I smear, + With wisdom learnt from ancient teachers, + Now winter time once more is here, + This grease upon your lengthy features! + Behaving thus, your loyal friend + No whit encourages deception: + Believe me, Fairest, in the end + This oil will better your complexion. + Fairest, believe! + + Did you imagine in the bag + To sleep the sleep of Rip Van Winkle, + Removed from sunshine's golden flag + And duller daylight's smallest twinkle? + Well have you earned your rest; but yet, + Although disturbance seem uncivil, + Unless your cheeks and chin be wet + With oil, your beauteousness will shrivel. + Rarest, believe! + + Absorb, that, when for our delight + The May unpacks its lovely blossom, + With beaming face, with shoulders bright + You leave the bag's congenial bosom. + Then shall the Lover and his Lass + Walk out toward the pitch together, + And, glorying in the shaven grass, + Tackle, with mutual faith, the leather. + Dearest, absorb! + + + + +THE GOLDEN GAME. + + + If ever there was a Golden Game + To brace the nerves, to cure repining, + To put the Dumps to flight and shame, + It's Cricket when the sun is shining! + Gentlemen, toss the foolscap by, + Gentlemen, change from books to leather! + Breathe your fill of the breeze from the hill, + Thanking Bliss for the great blue weather. + + If ever there was a bag could beat + The box possessed by Miss Pandora, + 'Tis that in which there cuddle neat + The tools to shape the flying Fourer. + Gentlemen, watch the purple ball! + Gentlemen, keep your wits in tether! + Take your joy with the heart of a boy + Under the dome of the big blue weather. + + If ever I feel my veins abound + With zealous blood more fit for Twenty, + 'Tis when upon the shaven ground + Fair Fortune gives me runs in plenty. + Gentlemen all, while sinews last, + Bat ye, bowl ye, friends together! + Play the play till the end of your day, + Mellowest mates in the big blue weather! + + But ever the ancient tale is told, + And History (the jade!) repeated: + By Time, who's never over-bowled, + At last we find ourselves defeated. + Gentlemen all, though stiff we be, + Youth comes along in finest feather, + Just as keen as we all have been + Out on the turf in the great blue weather! + + There's ever the deathless solace left-- + To gaze at younger heroes smiting, + Of neither grit nor hope bereft, + Up to the end for victory fighting. + Gentlemen all, we taste delight, + Banished now from the stream and heather, + Calm and cool on an old camp-stool, + Watching the game in the big blue weather! + + + + +THE FEMALE BOY. + + + If cursed by a son who declined to play cricket, + (Supposing him sound and sufficient in thews,) + I'd larrup him well with the third of a wicket, + Selecting safe parts of his body to bruise. + In his mind such an urchin King Solomon had + When he said, Spare the stump, and you bungle the lad! + + For what in the world is the use of a creature + All flabbily bent on avoiding the Pitch? + Who wanders about, with a sob in each feature, + Devising a headache, inventing a stitch? + There surely would be a quick end to my joy + If possessed of that monster--the feminine boy!-- + + The feminine boy who declines upon croquet, + Or halma, or spillikins (horrible sport!), + Or any amusement that's female and pokey, + And flatly objects to behave as he ought! + I know him of old. He is lazy and fat, + Instead of this Thing, fit for punishment drastic, + Give, Fortune, a son who is nimble and keen; + A bright-hearted sample of human elastic, + As fast as an antelope, supple and clean; + Far other than he in whose dimples there lodge + Significant signs of inordinate stodge. + + Ay, give me the lad who is eager and chubby, + A Stoddart in little, a hero in bud; + Who'd think it a positive crime to grow tubby, + And dreams half the night he's a Steel or a Studd! + There's the youth for my fancy, all youngsters above-- + The boy for my handshake, the lad for my love! + + + + +THE DARK BOWLER. + + + I know that Bowler, dark and lean, + Who holds his tongue, and pegs away, + And never fails to come up keen, + However hard and straight I play. + Spinning and living, from his hand + The leather, full of venom, leaps; + How nicely are his changes planned, + And what a lovely length he keeps! + + Because he pulls his brim so low, + However earnestly one tries + One never sees the darkling glow, + That must be nimble in his eyes. + The fellow's judgment never nods, + His watchful spirit never sleeps. + There was a clinking ball! Ye gods, + Why, what a splendid length he keeps! + + At times he bowls an awkward ball + That in the queerest manner swerves, + And this delivery of them all + Takes most elastic from my nerves: + It comes, and all along my spine + A sense of desolation creeps; + Till now the mastery is mine, + But--what a killing length he keeps! + + That nearly passed me! That again + Miraculously missed the bails! + Too good a sportsman to complain, + He never flags, he never stales. + Small wonder if his varied skill + So fine a harvest daily reaps, + For how he marries wit and will! + And what a deadly length he keeps! + + + + +UNCLE BOB INDIGNANT. + +_("Flannelled fools at the wicket")_ + + + Come, poke the fire, pull round the screen, + And fill me up a glass of grog + Before I tell of matches seen + And heroes of the mighty slog! + While hussies play near mistletoe + The game of kiss-me-if-you-dare, + I'll dig for you in memory's snow, + And where my eager spade shall go + Uncover bliss for you to share, + My Boys! + + As sloppiness our sport bereaves + Of what was once a glorious zest, + And female men are thick as thieves, + With croquet, ping-pong, and the rest, + Prophetic eyes discern the shame + Shall humble England in the dust; + And in their graves our sires shall flame + With scorn to know the Nation's game + Cat's-cradle; Cricket gone to rust, + My Lads + + Ah, for a winged and wounding pen, + In vigour dipped, to pierce the age + When girls are athletes, not the men, + And toughness dwindles from the stage!-- + When purblind poet cannot see + That in the games he wishes barred, + Eager, and hungry to be free + As when it triumphed on the sea, + The Viking spirit battles hard, + My Sons! + + If you have need of flabbier times, + Colensos, Stormbergs, Spion Kops, + Tell cricketers to take to rhymes, + And smash at once the cross-bar props. + _When_ sportsmen, tied to sport, refuse + To offer lead the loyal breast, + To tramp for miles in bloody shoes, + To smirch their souls, to crack their thews, + _Then_ let 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! + + + + +THE TUTOR'S LAMENT. + + + 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! + + + + +A WIGGING. + + + "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!" + + + + +THE TWO KINGS. + +_(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! + + + + +THE APPEAL. + + + 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! + + + + +THE OLYMPIANS. + + + 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 + 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! + + + + +THE OLD PROFESSIONAL. + + + 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!" + + + + +FIVE YEARS AFTER. + + + 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. + + + + +DOCTOR CRICKET. + + + 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! + + + + +PHILOSOPHY. + + + '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 ENTHUSIAST. + + + 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, + 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! + + + + +CRICKET AND CUPID. + + + 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! + + + + +A BOUNDARY. + + + 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 COMMENTATOR. + + + 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! + + + + +LUCKY LADS. + + + 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! + + + + +CRICKET IN THE GARDEN. + + + 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! + + + + +THE PRINCE, BATTING. + + + 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, + How happy we feel! How happy we feel! + + + + +THE REASON. + + + Now why did Arthur Hoare pull out + A sovereign with a happy shout + And give it rashly to his scout, + Who almost had a fit? + + Why of a sudden did he fling + A hard-boiled egg at Eustace Ling, + Forgetting how an egg can sting + The person who is hit? + + Why after dinner did he turn + In fury on his room, and burn + His old oak chairs with unconcern?-- + A stupid thing to do! + + And why so harshly did he pelt + With forks a fresh and timorous Celt + Afraid to utter what he felt? + _Arthur had got his Blue!_ + + + + +A LONG GRACE. + +_(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 noble name, + Monarch in fact and fame, + From twenty-two hearty lads in a party + Broadened and bronzed by the Game!_ + + + + +REMEMBER, PLEASE! + + + 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! + + + + +THE FORERUNNERS. + + + Beside the pillar-box a girl + Sells daffodils in golden bunches, + And with an apron 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! + + + + +NET PRACTICE. + + + 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 Butterlegs 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 Butterlegs 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 Butterlegs 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 muff. + When from his bed at last he came, + Where fifty bruises had been nursed, + He was no more a public shame, + Nor Butterlegs the Worst! + + + + +THE CATCH OF THE SEASON. + + + He was a person most unkempt, + And answered to the name of Cust. + He had a frenzied mass 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~ + +Crown 8vo., 6_s_. + + * * * * * + +~The House of Merrilees~. ARCHIBALD MARSHALL. _[Now Ready_. + +~The Unequal Yoke~. Mrs. H.H. PENROSE. _[Now Ready_. + +~The Discipline of Christine~. Mrs. BARRÉ GOLDIE. _[Now Ready_. + +~Peter Binney, Undergraduate~. ARCHIBALD MARSHALL. _[Now Ready_. + +~Peace on Earth~. REGINALD TURNER. _[Now Ready_. + +~The Countermine~. ARTHUR WENLOCK. _[Now Ready_. + +~The Friendships of Veronica~. THOMAS COBB. [May 17. + +~Hugh Revel, A Public School Story~. LIONEL PORTMAN. [July 25.] + + +~Notes on Books.~ + +In issuing a list of new and forthcoming publications, Mr. Alston +Rivers cannot but express his gratification at the spirit of fair play +which has enabled him to realise such a striking series of successes. +The primary business of a publisher is to discriminate, both as to +intrinsic literary merit, and with regard to what will hit the public +taste, a classical illustration of the difficulty in gauging the +latter being the rejection of "John Inglesant" by the late James Payn, +then "reader" for an eminent firm. While fully recognising the +remarkable gifts of the author Mr. Payn's hesitancy as to the book's +attractions got the better of his judgment; and with "_The House of +Merrilees_" it is now an open secret that very much the same point of +view was taken in more than one instance. Mr. Marshall's "_Peter +Binney, Undergraduate_," had been and is still decidedly popular, but +his new book was more ambitious, possessing such a plot as to require +peculiarly delicate handling. Had it been handled in a way that +combined a really high literary standard with more stirring qualities? +The question requires no answer now, for the triumph which the +publisher at once foretold on reading the manuscript has been more +than attained, and "_The House of Merrilees_" is indisputably the +novel of the season. It has at the same time demonstrated to the +publishing trade that a sensational story does not labour under any +disadvantage by the abduction of literary style. + + * * * * * + +In a wholly different vein are "_The Discipline of Christine_" and +"_The Unequal Yoke_," by Mrs. Barré Goldie and Mrs. H.H. Penrose +respectively. In the former the ways and moods of childhood are +depicted in original and inimitable fashion, which makes it safe to +predict that the author will go far beyond her first effort as a +novelist. In "_The Unequal Yoke_" Mrs. Penrose has taken for her theme +the love story of a clergyman whose benefice is an Irish coast town, +and in whose flock prominence is attained by narrow zeal rather than +by amiability. He is really a good man, and is lucky enough, or the +reverse, to win the hand of a delightful young lady whose charms, +however, do not command the unanimous approval of the parishioners. +The possession of high musical attainments makes her temperament all +the more interesting, and accounts for the presence in so remote a +district of her German friend whose acute sense of the ridiculous +leads to such untoward results. It is hard to say whether the author's +talents are best evinced by her true pathos or by the delicate touches +of humour which pervade the book. Another commendable feature of the +novel is an alert skill in construction which stamps it as a +thoroughly artistic production. + + +~_Ready May 2_.~ + +~The Soul of London.~ FORD MADOX HUEFFER. Author of "The Life of +Madox Brown," "The Face of the Night," &c. Imperial 16mo, 5_s._ nett. + + * * * * * + +~_Ready May 9_.~ + +~More Cricket Songs.~ NORMAN GALE. Imperial 16mo, 2_s._ nett. + + * * * * * + +~_New Edition. Now Ready_.~ + +~Spring Blossoms and Summer Fruit.~ JOHN BYLES. Cloth, Crown 8vo, +1_s._ 6_d._ nett. + +These "Sunday Morning Talks to Children" are full of charm and +suggestive thought. + +"We can hardly praise too highly the beauty and exquisite simplicity +of these talks."--_Literary World_. + +London: ALSTON RIVERS, 13, Arundel Street. + + +Mr. Reginald Turner has already achieved such distinction as an author +of superior fiction (witness the success of his "_Comedy of Progress_" +and "_Cynthia's Damages_,") that a cordial reception was assured for +his latest book "_Peace on Earth_." It is a pathetic story that he has +to tell; of the sorrows of the outcast amid poverty, and the rage +against law and government provoked thereby; of the less obvious, but +equally poignant, griefs which smoulder beneath the surface of +"comfortable circumstances." The plot is, in short, one that in the +hands of any other than a thorough man of the world, would fail +hopelessly, which makes Mr. Turner's complete and undoubted success +all the more meritorious. + +"_The Countermine_" is the work of Mr. Arthur Wenlock, whose "_As Down +of Thistle_" showed considerable promise, though perhaps his subtle +vein of sardonic philosophy escaped due recognition. As its name +denotes, the interest in the new novel is largely military; in every +line the soldier, with his nice sense of honour, his virility, and his +direct methods, stands revealed. "_The Countermine_" is certainly a +most thrilling tale, and should raise the author to the front rank of +writers on "Service" topics. Of Mr. Thomas Cobb, whose reputation is +already firmly established, it is only necessary to say that in "_The +Friendships of Veronica_" his fertile and resourceful pen is at its +best if, indeed, his literary reputation has not been substantially +advanced. + + +~The Alston Rivers' Shilling Library~. + + * * * * * + +~Creatures that once were Men~. MAXIM GORKY. With Introductory by +G.K. CHESTERTON. + +~Lovers in London~. A.A. MILNE. + +"'A Coming Humorist.' ... In Mr. Milne it may not be extravagant to +descry a writer with a future before him."--_Evening Standard and St. +James's Gazette_. + +~Change for a Halfpenny~. C.L.G. and E.V.L. + +The hustling methods of modernity possess undoubted possibilities for +humorous treatment, and no one has appreciated the fact more keenly +than the authors of "Wisdom While you Wait." In this their latest work +the prospectus of the Napolio Syndicate forms a bowstring whence fly +shafts of satire that hit the mark every time. + +~The Loot of Cities~. ARNOLD BENNETT. + +~Publican and Serf~. + +A striking study of nomadic life among the peasant classes, translated +from the Russian by J.K.M. SHIRAZI. + + +It is one thing to be a famous writer; it is another to be widely +read. Maxim Gorky is at present included in both categories, though as +regards the second condition he had scarcely qualified prior to the +publication of "_Creatures that once were Men_." It was a bold +venture, for all the former successes in shilling form were either +sensationally melodramatic or frankly farcical. Encouraged by the huge +demand for Maxim Gorky's book, Mr. Alston Rivers is publishing in the +same form (1/- nett, paper, and 1/6 cloth) "_Publican and Serf_," by +Skitaletz, a Russian Author, who, while by no means behind Gorky in +point of realism, possesses in the opinion of some critics a still +greater measure of literary ability. Other items of Mr. Alston Rivers' +Shilling Library, which has prospered as only the result of the most +careful selection could prosper, are "_Lovers in London_," by A.A. +Milne, brightest and most promising of the younger humorists, and +"_The Loot of Cities_," by Mr. Arnold Bennett, the mere name of whom +is a sufficient guarantee of entertainment. As for general literature, +"_The Soul of London_," by Ford Madox Hueffer, may be justly described +as worthy of a place in every library. The author in his introduction, +remarks that he has tried to make the book anything rather than +encyclopædic, topographical, or archæological, and beyond that +somewhat negative phrase it is difficult to give any more complete +designation to the work. For the treatment of the subject is +altogether original, this attraction being intensified by the +particularly graceful style in which a remarkable gift of observation +finds expression. + + +~The Novel of the Season~ + + * * * * * + +~THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES~. +6/- +By ARCHIBALD MARSHALL, +_Author of "Peter Binney, Undergraduate_" + + * * * * * + +"The ~best mystery novel~ since Sir A. Conan Doyle's 'Sign of +Four.'"--_Daily Graphic_. + +"Can recommend cordially and with confidence to those who like a ~really +good story~, well constructed and excellently told."--_Punch_. + +"A really satisfactory tale of mystery is always ~sure of its +welcome~, and 'The House of Merrilees' ought to secure wide +popularity."--_Daily Mail_. + +"~Great ingenuity~ is shown in the way in which clue is crossed by +counter-clue."--_The Daily Telegraph_. + +"It is a pleasure to praise a book of this kind, and rare to find one +in which ~a narrative of absorbing interest~ is combined with so +many literary graces."--_The Bookman_. + +"A very ~engrossing story~."--_Graphic_. + +"The ~best story~ of its kind we have read for years."--_Guardian_. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of More Cricket Songs, by Norman Gale + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13167 *** |