ce,
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