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Norman Gale
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 24 pages of information about More Cricket Songs.

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,
  Who’s travelled many a mile with me
    In half a hundred sorts of weather! 
  Once more to clasp your friendly hand,
    To tramp along by Hope attended,
  Dreaming of glances, drives, and cuts,
    My Dear Old Girl, how truly splendid!

NET PRACTICE.

  We had a fellow in the School
    Whose batting simply was a dream: 
  A dozen times by keeping cool
    And hitting hard he saved the Team. 
  But oh! his fielding was so vile,
    As if by witch or goblin cursed,
  That he was called by Arthur Style,
    King Butterlegs the Worst!

  At tea-time, supper, breakfast, lunch,
    For many disappointed days,
  We reasoned with him in a bunch,
    Imploring him to mend his ways. 
  He listened like a saint, with lips
    As if in desperation pursed;
  Then gave three fourers in the Slips—­
    King Butterlegs the Worst!

  ’Twas after this the Captain tried,
    In something warmer than a pet,
  To comfort his lamenting Side
    By pelting Curtice in a net. 
  Aware of his tremendous power,
    The Captain used it well at first,
  And peppered only half-an-hour
    King Butterlegs the Worst!

  But half-an-hour at such a range—­
    From such a Captain!—­was enough
  To work so prompt and blest a change
    That Curtice ceased to be a muff. 
  When from his bed at last he came,
    Where fifty bruises had been nursed,
  He was no more a public shame,
    Nor Butterlegs the Worst!

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