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.

For though we field the whole day long
Hope's spark refuses to expire;
A wily lob's successful job
At once renews the slackening fire.
Be Spartan, then! Crave not to flirt
With Tennis and her female ball!
'Tis better to have tossed,
And lost,
Than never to have tossed at all.

THE ENTHUSIAST.

The Major, till the paper comes,
Is by a hundred fidgets shaken;
Upon the tablecloth he drums,
Condemns the toast, pooh-poohs the bacon:
But when at last the boy arrives,
Not his to scan the market prices;
Though liner sinks or palace burns,
The Major lives by rule, and turns
To cricket first, and then the crisis.

Though getting grey and rather stiff,
The Major loves a long day's outing,
And gives a military sniff
When lads complain of lengthy scouting.
Each summer morn at break of day
From bed before the lark he tumbles,
And if the mercury be vile
There carries nearly half a mile
The Indian vigour of his grumbles.

When winter brings its snow and ice,
As well as divers pains and twinges,
The Major's language gathers spice,
And oftentimes his temper singes.
On Christmas day he oils his bats,
And, on the crimson hearthrug scoring,
Through Fancy's slips he cuts the ball,
Or lifts her over Fancy's wall,
Till all the ghostly ring is roaring!

And when at length the day is near
For Death to bowl the Major's wicket,
(The Major swears he has no fear
That Paradise is short of cricket!)
If in the time of pad and crease
His soul receives its last advices,
With final paper on his bed
I know the Major will be wed
To cricket first—and then the crisis!

CRICKET AND CUPID.

She understands the game no more
Than savages the sun's eclipse;
For all she knows the bowler throws,
And Square-Leg stands among the Slips:
And when in somersaults a stump
Denotes a victim of the game,
Her lovely throat begets a lump,
Her cheeks with indignation flame.

She scarce can keep her seat, and longs
To cheer the fallen hero's fate;
Her fingers clench upon the bench
As if it were the Trundler's pate!
Because this rascal's on the spot
Her passion fails to be concealed;
She asks me why the wretch is not
Immediately turned off the field.

But if the batsmen force the pace,
From me she quickly takes her cue;
Perceives the fun of stolen run,
The overthrow that makes it two.
And as the ball bombards the fence,
Or rattles on the Scorers' hut,
She claps with me the Drive immense,
And prettily applauds the Cut.