More Cricket Songs eBook

Norman Gale
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 38 pages of information about More Cricket Songs.

  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!


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 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
    Of ball and wooden blade,
  In rivalry he whistles
    A ballad unafraid.

  Right jocund is the music
    That, poured in lovely jets,
  Accompanies superbly
    The heroes in the Nets;
  And sweet the startled pauses
    Amid the royal song
  That come when shout together
    The drive-delighted throng.

  The greatness of the uproar
    Benumbs him, and he lets
  His pulsing bosom ponder
    The tumult in the Nets;
  But soon afresh, while warbling
    His comment on the game,
  He puts all human songsters—­
    Quite easily!—­to shame.

Project Gutenberg
More Cricket Songs from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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