There on the clods the bag was lying! 
  There was the rope for the handle’s tying! 
  How can you wonder we all were crying,
    Utterly broken? 
  Scarred and shabby it went.  We espied it
  Deep where the grave so soon would hide it,
  Safe on his heart, with his togs inside it—­
    Tenderest token!

  There we stood by his grave together,
  Out in the stiff autumnal weather,
  Many a mate of splice and leather,
    After his innings;
  All on a day of misty yellow
  Watching in pain a grabbing fellow,
  Death, who diddles both young and mellow,
    Pocket his winnings.

DOCTOR CRICKET.

  Dear Tom, I do not like your look,
    Your brows are (see the poets) bent;
  You’re biting hard on Tedium’s hook,
    You’re jaundiced, crumpled, footled, spent. 
  What’s worse, so mischievous your state
    You have no pluck to try and trick it. 
  Here!  Cram this cap upon your pate
    And come with me to Doctor Cricket!

  Don’t eye decanters on the shelf. 
    Your tongue’s already thick with fur! 
  Up, heart! and be your own dear self
    As when we chummed at Winchester. 
  Destroy these pasteboard dancing girls;
    This theatre-bubble, come, Tom, prick it! 
  Love more the off and leg-break curls
    Arranged for us by Doctor Cricket!

  You feel worn out at twenty-two? 
    Your day’s a thing of thirst and gloom? 
  Old chap, of course I’ll see you through,
    But—­drop that rot about the tomb! 
  Let’s overhaul your bag.  A pair
    Of noble bats to guard a wicket! 
  Out, Friend, to breathe the sunny air,
    And wring the hand of Doctor Cricket!

  Be healed; and shun the flabby gang
    That tricked your taste with cards and drink,
  When out of independence sprang
    A silly downfall.  Think, Tom, think! 
  While stupid lads debase their worth
    In feather-headed Folly’s thicket,
  Get back your muscle and your mirth
    Beneath the eye of Doctor Cricket!

PHILOSOPHY.

  ’Tis sometimes Fortune’s little joke
    With vinegar to brim the cup;
  And on the grass this fickle Lass
    Makes pennies come the wrong side up. 
  But though a Head instead of Tail
    Is sure to greet my anxious call,
  ’Tis better to have tossed,
    And lost,
  Than never to have tossed at all.

  To do our best in spite of luck,
    To stop or gallop for the drive,
  To seek our fun in bronzing sun,
    Shall cause both head and heart to thrive. 
  And though the penny’s face I choose
    That next the turf is bound to fall,
  ’Tis better to have tossed,
    And lost,
  Than never to have tossed at all.