CRICKET SONGS

BY

NORMAN GALE

METHUEN AND CO.
36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.
LONDON
1894

Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty

These Cricket Songs are dedicated to
all Rugby Boys in general, and
to John and William Denton
in particular

PREFACE

Four years ago the author of this book issued a slender volume of cricket songs. Seven of these are now reprinted; the rest are new.

The cricket ball, for the most part, is spoken of as a female. Once or twice the neuter gender is used. Varium et mutabile semper femina.

It is hoped that the introduction of the names of prominent players (and one critic) will cause no vexation.

Apologies are tendered to Mr. Moore and Mr. Shakespeare.

CONTENTS

IN SPRING

Grass begins to grow,

Winds to be more civil,

Rollers press the pitch

For to make it level:

Thrushes pipe a stave

In the budding thicket;

Snowdrops point to pads,

Crocuses to Cricket!

Soon will stand the Slip

Crouching for a capture;

Soon the slogger slog

Fours and fives in rapture!

Soon the curly lob

Find its love, the wicket;

Snowdrops point to pads,

Crocuses to Cricket!

Urchins in the road

Bowl with oblong pebbles,

Sending to each mate

Bursts of happy trebles:

In the words of slang,

Summer is the ticket!

Snowdrops point to pads,

Crocuses to Cricket!

UP AT LORDS

When Stoddart makes her hum,

Up at Lords,

Till the bowler bites his thumb,

Up at Lords,

How the Middlesex supporters

Turn vociferous exhorters

As he jumps on Lockwood's Snorters,

Up at Lords!

When Stoddart makes her hum

Up at Lords,

And my country cousins come

Up at Lords

With their looks as sweet as honey,

And their exclamations funny,

I am prodigal of money

Up at Lords!

When Stoddart makes her hum

Up at Lords,

And the Surrey Skipper's glum

Up at Lords,

Oh! all my odds are even,

And (I hope to be forgiven)

'Tis a truly Cricket Heaven

Up at Lords!

OUT

O very potent little word,

'Out!'

How often have we sadly heard

'Out!'

When stupid umpires surely sin,

Just as to settle we begin,

And say, in place of saying 'in,'

'Out!'

Though I am Captain of the team,

'Out!'

Though I in doubt may gravely seem,

'Out!'

Though I have barely scored a run

My average goes down with one,

And other Bats must have the fun—

'Out!'

I see Jones laugh behind his hand—

Out!

Next match, by Jove, the brute shall stand

Out!

Our cousin, Lydia Lake, is here,

And in her eyes I would appear

A Swell; hinc illae—Jones's sneer—

Out!

Ah! lucky Jones begins to hit

Out!

Another four! I wish he'd get

Out!

I see him look where Lydia sits

To note if she applauds his hits—

She does! She'll burst her gloves to bits!—

Out!

Yet why should I be Jones's butt,

Out?

I have a plan that chap to cut

Out!

What boots it thus to mope, my soul?

I go to sit by Lydia. Scowl,

O Jones, for you, methinks, I bowl

Out!

LAY ON

One wicket to fall and a round fifty runs

Waited for still:

As well to imagine that twice twenty tuns

Go to a jill!

O Jones, be contained if you worship your school,

Block her and snick;

But punch her to leg if she's handy; keep cool;

Lay it on thick!

She comes up full pitch now and then, so look out;

Dust her along!

And go like a hare if you notice me shout—

Wait for the song!

Tom Emmett will chaff ev'ry chap in the team—

Jolly old Brick!—

If we funk like young misses of sugar and cream;

Lay it on thick!

Go big at those lobs like a lusty old Jones,

Give it 'em hot!

They break; get in front with your bundle of bones,

Leg is the spot!

Take guard. Oh, well banged! There's a four to begin,

See, they are sick!

Another! Another! we're going to win—

Lay it on thick!

RUB IT IN

It's all very well

For Reginald Dibbs,

Who hasn't been hit

By a ball in the ribs

And one on the shin

To shout, 'Rub it in!'

What cheek of R. Dibbs,

Who, you know, is a sneak,

To scream to you there

In his high treble squeak,

So strident and thin,

'O Jones, rub it in!'

I wonder if Dibbs,

When I punch him to-night,

Will think it was wise,

Or thoughtful, or right,

To caper and grin,

And yell, 'Rub it in!'

BUZZ HER IN

They're running another! Hi, Russell, look sharp!

Buzz her in!

Excuse me, you fellows—a Captain must carp—

Buzz her in!

The fielding's disgusting! when crossing our swords,

Or rather our bats, on the greensward of Lords

You must loose some few of your muscular cords—

Buzz her in!

Let her come like a flash, and remember, shy straight!

Buzz her in!

We don't want a fourer made into an eight—

Buzz her in!

Suppress all the Extras you possibly can,

For often they total far more than a man—

Just think of last year and the short runs they ran!

Buzz her in!

Don't trot by the side of the ball like a dolt,

Buzz her in!

But cram on the pace like a fine Derby colt,

Buzz her in!

Pick her up, dash her in true and fast to the sticks,

And teach the best batsmen to look to their tricks!

The team that can field well the team is that licks—

Buzz her in!

Get in front of the ball if you can—take the hint—

Buzz her in!

But if she flies past you, why—then you must sprint!

Buzz her in!

Turn round in an instant; decide in the same

Which wicket to throw at—it may win the game—

Beware of returns that are timidly tame,

Buzz her in!

Any bruise that you gain in the course of your toil,

Buzz her in!

The Matron will rub with St. Jacob his Oil,

Buzz her in!

And the fellows will cheer when you stop a hot drive—

Thronging round the Pavilion like bees near a hive;

And your name in our annals for ever will thrive—

Buzz her in!

If attention be paid to such details as these,

Buzz her in!

Much trembling will visit the Marlborough knees,

Buzz her in!

Let Rugby's Eleven tremendously try

To catch ev'ry catch be it low, hot, or high;

And down with each overthrow, wide ball, or bye—

Buzz her in!

A COLONIST

The Cornstalk ladles out his Fours

Or Fivers, as the slog may be.

Oh, how the ring of watchers roars

When Lyons's set and Taking Tea!

But when the hitter shows his paces

I like to note the varied faces—

Shrewsbury's with grief in it,

George Giffen's with relief in it,

When Lyons puts his beef in it

And planks her to the railings!

For Hearne's deliveries are stale,

And Lockwood's lightning does not thrive;

That fielder's anything but pale

Who goes great Gunns to stop the drive!

The Nottingham Express! He chases;

I like to note the varied faces—

Shrewsbury's with grief in it,

George Giffen's with relief in it,

When Lyons puts his beef in it

And planks her to the railings!

LIGHTNING (GREASED)

Who is Kortright? what is He

That Lang doth so commend him?

Bowly, fierce and fast is he;

The heaven such pace did lend him

That he might admired be.

Fast he is, but is he fair?

For throwing is unkindness.

Those to libel him who dare

Do only prove their blindness;

And, being kicked, retract it there.

Then to Kortright let us sing,

That Kortright is excelling;

He excels each rapid thing

On Lords or Oval dwelling.

To him let us leather bring.

GOLF STEALS OUR YOUTH

Have you seen the golfers airy

Prancing forth to their vagary,

Just as frisky in their gaiters

As a flock of Grecian Satyrs,

Looking everything heroic,

And magnificently stoic,

In a dress of such a pattern

As would fright the good God Saturn?

Have you heard them curse the sparrow

Fit to freeze your inmost marrow,

When the ball, that should be flitting,

On the grass remaineth sitting?

Have you watched their cheerful scrambles

In the soft and soothing brambles

While the foe, elate and sneering,

Passes gradually from hearing?

After blaming all the witches,

After rending holes in breeches,

After getting in a muddle

With each rivulet and puddle,

They return, all labour ended,

To record their prowess splendid,

And renew by dictionary

Their fatigued vocabulary.

Let these gentlemen ecstatic,

In their costumes so emphatic,

Crawl to find a rounded treasure

In the horse-pond at their pleasure.

What so good when time is sunny,

And the air as sweet as honey,

As the game of crease and wicket,

England's proper pastime—Cricket?

A TOMBOY

That long-legged darling, Alice James,

Plays cricket with the Johnson boys;

A dozen engines could not make

So shrill a noise.

She's only twelve, and so, unfrocked