THE PRINCE, BATTING.

  As out of a cannon comes the ball! 
  Quickly it flies to the human wall. 
  Didn’t it go with a will and a whiz? 
    How lovely it is!  How lovely it is!

  Four to the east, and four to the west! 
  Arrowy shots at the Umpire’s chest! 
  Placid the sinewy batsman beams—­
    How easy it seems!  How easy it seems

  Watch!  For a ball we could barely poke
  The master hand and the radiant stroke! 
  Glances and cuts and drives and hooks—­
    How easy it looks!  How easy it looks!

  Now is the time we may all forget
  Paper and books, for the Prince is set. 
  Here in the grass, with our work at heel,
    How happy we feel!  How happy we feel!

THE REASON.

  Now why did Arthur Hoare pull out
  A sovereign with a happy shout
  And give it rashly to his scout,
    Who almost had a fit?

  Why of a sudden did he fling
  A hard-boiled egg at Eustace Ling,
  Forgetting how an egg can sting
    The person who is hit?

  Why after dinner did he turn
  In fury on his room, and burn
  His old oak chairs with unconcern?—­
    A stupid thing to do!

  And why so harshly did he pelt
  With forks a fresh and timorous Celt
  Afraid to utter what he felt?
    Arthur had got his Blue!

A LONG GRACE.

(W.G.  Grace’s XI. versus XXII. of Bath.)

  Nothing went right.  The Champion cut
  And drove and glanced, and cut again,
    Till every bowler we possessed
    Deep down within his smarting breast
  Half wished he’d lost that early train!
      Dobbin went on with Sneaks,
      Robin appeared 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!