PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Hooray! Oh, you must let me holloa. I'm one of the famed "Surrey Crowd,"

And a roar for a win such as this is, cannot be too long or too loud.

Lo! man!

Won by four wickets! As good as though Walter had scored half a million,

Great Scott! what a rush from the ring! what a crowd round the crowded Pavilion!

Lohmann! Maurice Read!! Shuter!!! they shouted. Key!!! Key!!! Lohmann!!! Lohmann!!!

"Took down the number" of Notts, Sir, and she's a redoubtable foeman.

We haven't licked her for years, and she crowed, Sir, and not without reason;

And now, under Shuter, we've done it at last, Sir, and twice in one season!

After a terrible tussle; how oft was my heart in my mouth, Sir.

Luck now seemed to lean to the North, and anon would incline to the South, Sir.

Game wasn't won till 'twas lost. Hooray, though, for Surrey! 'Twas her win.

We missed our Wood at the wicket, Notts squared it by missing her Sherwin,

Both with smashed fingers! Rum luck! But then cricketing luck is a twister.

And Sherwin turned up second innings. Did you twig his face when he missed her,

That ball from J. Shuter, our Captain? It ranked pretty high among matches,

But Surrey did make some mistakes, Sir, and Notts——well, they couldn't hold catches.

Shuter shone up, did he not? Forty-four, fifty-three, and such cutting!

Hooray! Here's his jolly good health, and look sharp, for they're close upon shutting.

Partial be blowed! I'm a Surreyite down to my socks, that's a fact, Sir.

Shrews—bery!

Must shout when my countymen score, and don't mind being caught in the act, Sir.

Cracks didn't somehow come off. Arthur Shrewsbury, Notts' great nonsuch,

Didn't make fifty all told, and our Walter—the world holds but one such—

A poor twenty-five and eighteen—a mere fleabite for W. W.

Still, he's our glory; and if you can spot such another, I'll trouble you.

Grace? Why, of course, in his day he was cock of the walk—that's a moral.

I won't say a word against him; but our Walter!—well, there, we won't quarrel.

I'm Surrey, you know, as I said. I remember Jupp, Humphry, and Stevenson,

Burly Ben Griffith, and Southerton! Well, if it ever was evens on

Match, it was surely on this one. Oh, yes, I gave points, six to five, Sir,

But then I have always backed Surrey, and will do so whilst I'm alive, Sir.

And t'other was Notts, don't you see, so I couldn't well show the white feather.

Ah! well, 'twas a wonderful match; such a crowd, such a game, and such weather!

K. J. K. (that's Mr. Key) showed remarkably promising cricket—

I did feel a little bit quisby when Sherwin snapped him at the wicket.

Gunn and Barnes.

'Twas getting too close, Sir, for comfort; two hundred and five takes some making—

When Barnes nicked Read, Shuter, and Henderson, 'gad, there were lots of hearts quaking.

Seventy-eight for a win, Sir, and five of our best wickets levelled.

Notts then began to pick up, and I own I felt rather blue-devilled;

But Surrey has got a rare team, and you see, when the toppers do fail, Sir,

They look at it this way, my boy,—there is all the more chance for the "tail," Sir.

That's what I call true cricket pluck, and so, even when Maurice Read quitted him,

That's what young Lohmann perceived; the place wanted cool grit—and it fitted him.

His thirty-five, and not out, was worth more, Sir, than many a "Century."

Played like an iceberg, he did; style neither too tame nor too venture-y.

Poor crippled Wood backed him bravely, and he made the winning hit, he did.

Won by four wickets! Hooray! Gallant Surrey at last has succeeded

In knocking the dust out of Notts. I've hoorayed till my tongue feels quite furry.

Yes, I like the best side to win,—but I'm thundering glad, though, it's Surrey!!!

In wrath redundant Swinburne turns and rends

The "good grey" bard. Alack for Swinburne's "friends"!

He worshipped once at thy red shine, Revolt,

Now thou'rt a mark for his Olympian bolt;

But when he rounds on poor barbaric Walt,

One can but gasp, and wonder where he'll halt.

Coupled with Byron in one furious "slate"?

O poor Manhattan mouther, what a fate!

Algernon's blunderbuss is double-barrelled;

Down at one shot go "Drum Taps" and "Childe