More Cricket Songs Part 2

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 G.o.ds 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 m.u.f.fs, Or did he play a dubious prank?

Venus herself began to scold, And G.o.ds 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!

p.r.o.ne 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 n.o.ble 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-b.a.l.l.s 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 b.u.mps; 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 st.i.tch, 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!

G.o.d knows I've m.u.f.fed 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 a.s.sessor 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 h.o.a.ry 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!