DEAR JOHN DENTON,

Not long ago you reminded me that once, when you were a boy and I was a schoolmaster, I was angry with you because you pouted all through a lesson in arithmetic.  Let bygones be bygones, and accept as a proof of my continuing friendship the dedication of this little volume, in which there are no other sums than those of the Telegraph.

Most sincerely yours,

Norman Gale.

  Here’s to the lad with his useful Fifteen,
    Here’s to the Bowler that’s thrifty,
  Here’s to the Bat who is Lord of the Green
    With his frequent and thundering Fifty!

For their courtesy in allowing him to reprint some of these songs the
Author thanks the Editor of The Westminster Gazette, Prince
Ranjitsinhji, Mr. James Bowden, the Editor of The Country, and the
Editor of The Sun.

Oiling
the golden game
the female boy
the dark bowler
uncle Bob indignant
the Tutor’s lament
A wigging
the two Kings
the Appeal
the OLYMPIANS
the old professional
five years after
Doctor cricket
philosophy
the enthusiast
cricket and Cupid
A boundary
the commentator
lucky lads
cricket in the garden
the Prince, batting
the reason
A long Grace
remember, please! 
The forerunners
net practice
the catch of the season

OILING.

(A Song In and Out of Season.)

  Excuse me, Sweetheart, if I smear,
    With wisdom learnt from ancient teachers,
  Now winter time once more is here,
    This grease upon your lengthy features! 
  Behaving thus, your loyal friend
    No whit encourages deception: 
  Believe me, Fairest, in the end
    This oil will better your complexion. 
      Fairest, believe!

  Did you imagine in the bag
    To sleep the sleep of Rip Van Winkle,
  Removed from sunshine’s golden flag
    And duller daylight’s smallest twinkle? 
  Well have you earned your rest; but yet,
    Although disturbance seem uncivil,
  Unless your cheeks and chin be wet
    With oil, your beauteousness will shrivel. 
      Rarest, believe!

  Absorb, that, when for our delight
    The May unpacks its lovely blossom,
  With beaming face, with shoulders bright
    You leave the bag’s congenial bosom. 
  Then shall the Lover and his Lass
    Walk out toward the pitch together,
  And, glorying in the shaven grass,
    Tackle, with mutual faith, the leather. 
        Dearest, absorb!