Like "Leviathan" in form,

Little Gregory laid on,

Doughty Darling made it warm,

And George Giffen, fadeless one,

Smote our trundlers with a coolness quite sublime.

Four—One—Four! The "wire" so saith!—

There was silence deep as death,

And our boldest held his breath

For a time.

But the hopes of England flushed

On that mighty Melbourne green;

How young Ward and Stoddart rushed

O'er the space those stumps between!

Sixty-eight our Captain piled, and the fun

Cool Maclaren kept alive;

With Six-Score! Bob Peel did strive,

And our score was Three—Eight—Five!

Ere 'twas done!

Australia once again!

And the scoring does not slack.

May kind heaven avert the rain,

Till the last bat hies him back!

At good shots how the cheers break and boom

Round the ring!—and oh! the wail

At the click of flying bail,

As the Richardsonian hail

Pelts—like doom!

Good Grey George, the Australian Chief,

Smote again his swashing blows.

Mingled sounds of joy and grief

From the Melbourne ring arose!

When the stumps again are drawn for the day

Brockwell, prey to bad luck's blight,

Is again out of the fight,

Ward and Stoddart in, to smite

As they may.

Two—six—nine more runs to make!

And one leading wicket down!—

Old World, let thine echoes wake

With the honoured name of Brown,

Yorkshire Brown, the last selected, but not least,

Oh! to see him smite and run,

With Lancashire's great gun,

Albert Ward, to share the fun

Was a feast!

One-forty! Ninety-three!

Though, for once, stout Stoddart failed,

That left few more runs, d'ye see?

And though Trott and Giffen hailed

At the stumps, and Jarvis watched like a cat,

Young Maclaren and Bob Peel

Won the match slap off the reel,

By six wickets! How d'ye feel

John, at that?

Out spake the victor then

(And we echo him o'er the wave),

"Ye are brothers, trumps, and men!

And it was the narrowest shave

That victory to us Britons did allot.

That Crown, as is but meet,

We will lay at England's feet.

But by George, you're bad to beat—

George's Lot!"

Now joy, Old England raise

For the tidings of that fight.

Gallant Stoddart crown with bays!

When the wine-cup brims to-night

His name will sound the loudest midst the roar.

Thanks to him, and Mister Brown,

And some others of renown,

We still keep the Cricket Crown

On our shore.

But though Lion-Stoddart wears

That proud wreath, the Kangaroo

("Old Man" Giffen) fairly shares,

With his good and gallant crew,

The best honours of the game they fought to save.

At the wickets far from flats,

In the field they were like cats.

So here's power to the Bats

Of the Brave.