Cricket Songs

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!

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 Beyond her sometimes shameless knee; And never maiden longed so much A boy to be.

She puts on gloves and pads to bat, And makes young Johnson bowl her slows. Good heavens! How she pulled that ball! And how she goes!

She's tumbled yards outside the crease, And is indisputably out. Another innings? Ah, how strong That cherry pout!

She keeps on batting all the time, And hammers Rupert Johnson's lobs; She also thumps Emilius's, And also Bob's!

So, riding roughshod over rules, This long-legged Darling has her will; And when she's twenty, I expect She will do still.

Advice Gratis

If lightning-like you send her down, And yet the batsman scores With here a One and there a Two, And then a brace of Fours; If calmly confident he stands, And makes the leather fly Past all your slips to dash against The boundary palings, why-- Toss him down a slow, you see, He's sure to have a go, you see; And ten to one the trick is done By just a bit of brains, you see!

If round the wicket, medium pace, Won't make the batsman budge, Take special note of what he likes, And all his weakness judge. Suppose he does the leg-glance well, Or drives her hot and high, Or runs to smother each good ball And pulls the short ones, why-- Sling him in a grub, you see, A ripping, wicked grub, you see; And ten to one the trick is done By just a pinch of wit, you see!

But if with equal craft he meets Your wiles, and does not blench; If ev'ry bowler in your team Desires the restful bench, And there he stands, the unsubdued, With dauntless front and eye, Prepared to smack your choicest balls To realms unheard-of, why-- Don't ask my advice, you see, No, not at any price, you see; But ten to one the trick were done If I were in your team, you see!

Quinquaginta Annos Natus

Old Bag and Bat, no more together We take the train to Barnes or Tooting; No more I'll gallop for the leather, Nor grumble when the ball keeps shooting: I've fetched her many a handsome clout At Rugby, Nottingham, and Dover; So far Old Time has said 'Not out!' But one day he will change to 'Over!'

God bless the grilling days of Cricket! They're gone, but I shall bless them ever, For good it is to guard a wicket By sudden wrist and big endeavour. Don't think I was a lazy lout Who never worked for days of clover; I earned my games. Time cries 'Not out!' But one day he will change to 'Over!'

Well, I can stand behind the netting And watch the 'Coach' so keen and trusty, Who likes to see the youngsters hitting, And teaches them to let out lusty! I've had my innings, not a doubt, And stopped a crack or so at Cover; I shall not funk when Time says 'Out!' And all my watching days are over.

Star-gazing

Astronomers, working like niggers, Neck-deep in morasses of figures, From Cricketing vainly would wean us With diagrams, even of Venus.