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!