class="c4">(Poor Auntie Nell is nearly crying!)
And now a stately stock is dead,
And now a columbine is dying.
Vainly the cook with female lobs
Desires to hit the egg-box wicket;
And not among the housemaid's jobs—
'Tis very plain—is garden cricket.

Whack on the bee-hive goes the ball!
"That's six!" screams Noel to the scorer.
A foxglove, steepled best of all,
Now sinks beneath a flying fourer.
Two to the lad's-love; and beyond
The lavender just half-a-dozen;
And TWELVE for dropping in the pond
A rank half-volley from his cousin!

To see my pinks give up the ghost
Is what no longer can be suffered:
Before I lose the scented host
This game, like candles, must be snuffered.
Noel, at ninety-two, not out,
Is carried to the nursery, screaming;
And later with a precious pout
Lies in his bed of down and dreaming.

There shall his Century be achieved,
Larkspurs and tiger-lilies humbled,
Geraniums of their fire bereaved,
And calceolarias torn and tumbled.
With fairy craft from dusk to dawn
Quaint Puck himself may bowl half-volleys,
But I have vowed, by love and lawn,
To weed one thistle from my follies!

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!

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