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;