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