ed 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,