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قراءة كتاب Cricket Songs
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 5
With Parsons (not musing on Paley),
Old friend of my boyhood, between us,
Then, then is the Transit of Venus!
O BOWLER, BOWLER
O Bowler, Bowler, when the day is hot,
Nor any more a wicket you can get;
When Curl and Length and Pace are Gone to Pot
Before the blade of him serenely set,
IS life worth living—life which only means
Your ev'ry ball receives stupendous Beans,
And that dread Bat a mighty harvest gleans
While your Analysis sinks deep in debt?
He cuts the leather hard and square,
Nor recks he if it shoots or kicks;
He sends you clean beyond the screen,
And lifts you o'er the Baths for six?
O Bowler, Bowler, when the Swells all frown
And say your non-success is due to Stodge;
When you in vain invoke the House of Brown
For help the brilliant Batsman to dislodge,
IS life worth living—life which only sends
Reproachful glances from despondent friends,
A varied action and a change of ends,
The subtle slow, the Daisy-cutter's dodge?
The Batsman smacks you to the Courts,
And drives you mad with cunning snicks;
He wipes you clean beyond the screen,
And crumps you o'er the Baths for six!
O Bowler, Bowler, when the Captain calls
'Let Longcroft try,' and places you at Point;
When Cover whispers 'Brown, look out for squalls!'
And, with a vengeance, times are out of joint,
IS life worth living—life which only brings
Mis-fielding pains and most erratic flings,
Which aid the Batsman's rapid regist'rings,
But leave you praiseless, slanged and unanoint?
The Batsman cuts the ball for five,
Employing judgment, nerve, and tricks;
He smites you clean beyond the screen,
And carts you o'er the Baths for six!
THE CHURCH CRICKETANT
I bowled three sanctified souls
With three consecutive balls!
What do I care if Blondin trod
Over Niagara Falls?
What do I care for the loon in the Pit
Or the gilded earl in the Stalls?
I bowled three curates once
With three consecutive balls!
I caused three Protestant 'ducks'
With three consecutive balls!
Poets may rave of lily girls
Dancing in marble halls!
What do I care for a bevy of yachts,
Or a dozen or so of yawls?
I bowled three curates once
With three consecutive balls!
I bowled three cricketing priests
With three consecutive balls!
What if a critic pounds a book,
What if an author squalls?
What do I care if sciatica comes,
Elephantiasis calls?
I bowled three curates once
With three consecutive balls!
REVENGE
Last week, when conning Cicero
In New Big School,
Smith called me, by a paraphrase,
A senseless mule:
I wasn't sharp enough just then
To answer, Jack,
That pots had oft been known to call
The kettles black!
And in the Close the other day
He called me 'Muff!'
I think I've borne his impudence
Quite long enough!
From length to length abusive men
Can quickly pass,
So I was hardly staggered when
He called me 'Ass!'
But in the nets on Friday eve
I long did toil
To make old Smith rub in at night
St. Jacob's Oil!
If on the Smithian shins remains
An unbruised inch
My name is not Bartholomew
Ezekiel Finch!
CHUCK HER UP
The leader was mightily pleased when he saw
That vanguard of his, with their trailing spears,
Stand up from their stoop by a common law
And welcome the sea with a round of cheers!
No doubt that he laughed as he drank his fill
Of the plundered wine in his golden cup;
But he knew not joy as an English boy
With his summer-time shout—'Chuck her up!'
And doubtless Columbus by hope deferred,
Wan, weary and worn, was down in the dumps
Till they brought him news of a mainland bird,
And fished up a couple of floating 'pumps.'
However polished the Portuguese phrase
That left his lips like a shot from a Krupp,
Allowing for dates I find it translates
By our cricketing shout—'Chuck her up!'
How decent when free of each Latin rule
To dash on your whites and rush to the