MORE CRICKET SONGS

by Norman Gale

Author of "Cricket Songs" "Barty's Star" "A Country Muse" and other works.

1905

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!

THE GOLDEN GAME.

If ever there was a Golden Game
To brace the nerves, to cure