Cricket 1894

404 <0R3£GKETi A WEEKLY EECOED 01 TEE GAME* SEPT. 20, 1894 IN PRAISE OP THE WILLOW. “ Cricket Songs,” by Norman Gale.—Methuen and Co., 1894 ; 2s. 6d. Mr. Norman Gale is a Warwickshire man. Among the followers of county cricket it is common knowledge that the Midland county is forging to the front in the national pastime, and there is this peculiar appropriateness in the oircum- stancf) that the praises of cricket should be sung by one who hails from a county of growing fame in the cricket world. But if Warwickshire is, so to speak, still but a colt among the counties, Mr. Nor- rpan Gale is, to continue the language of cricket, a set batsman amoDg the poets. That he has got his eye in, is sufficiently evident from the contents of this little book of Cricket Songs, the only rsviewer’s justice to which would be to indulge in extenso in “ the pious duty of trans­ cription.” To this course, however, there are obvious objections, and one must there- f6re be content with more conventional methods. To begin, if cricket and betting were not sworn foes, we should be inclined to wager that Mr. Gale is himself a cricketer, and we should also be inclined to risk a little extra on the statement that he is a very fair all-round man. No one, to our thinking, could enter into the ex­ perience of the cricketer's very heart, as the author of these poems does, whose exploits cricketward had been confined to the pavilion, the scoring tent, or the necessary but inglorious post of umpire. These are the war-songs of the cricketer rampant. H<re are the glee and gloom of the batsman, the fielder’s keen expectancy, the bowler’s despair as he gets lifted over the pavilion for the ninth time, and the victorious whoop of the same as he hears the cheery rattle of the sticks, and notes tho parabola of the flying bail. The vivid descriptions which the poems contain, the sense of the player's point of view which they inspire, and, above all, the respon­ sive feelings which they evoke, convince us that the experiences here detailed are the seed of the author's own soul. There are dangers besetting the flowery path of him who aspires to celebrate in song the praises of sport. There is, on the one hand, that of indulging in the vague rapture which leaves the reader, be he never so ardent a sportsman, with a sense of emptiness, a feeling that, though the singer has doubtltss been say­ ing some very fine things, he has not entered into the swing of the game, nor felt the thrill of its crisis, And, on the other hand, there lurks the danger of overdoing the detail, of wearying the reader with mere rhyming reports, abounding with interminable processions of Homeric heroes. Between these two dangerous extremes Mr. Gale has steered, to our thinking, with consummate skill, with the result that he has given to the world a little book which should be a source of pleasure to all cricketers. We say to cricketers, because it is nothing against the book to say that it can have tio charm for the mere layman. It abounds in ciicket and schoolboy slang, which is caviare to the general reader, who cannot be expected to understand the language of the leather. Let us, however, now cry “ over,” and indulge in the luxury of quotation. As the bowler begins, let us begin with the bowler. Here is the first verso of Mr. Gale’s apostrophe to that important person:— O Bowler, Bowler, when the day is hot, Nor any more a wicket you can get; When Curl and Length and Pace are G}ne to Pot Before the blade of him serenely set, Is life worth living—life which only means Your every ball receives stupendous Beans, And that dread Bat a mighty harvest gleans While yonr 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 ycu o’ er the Baths for six. Those are lines which we take leave to think will find a response in th9 heart of every bowler who has toiled in vain on a grilling day. “ Buzz her in ” is a complete poetic guide to fielding, all the more acceptable since it does not bother one, in the Badminton way, with the how of the thing. Yours not to reas n how, but to look spry, and buzz her in. Don't trot by the side of the ball like a dolt, Bnzz her in ! But cram on the paco like a fine Derby colt, Buzz her in I Pick her up, dash her in true and fast to the sticks, And teach the test batsman to look to their tricks! The team that can field well, the team is that licks — Buzz her in I How easy it would have been to have spoiled the penultimate line by a less perfect arrangement of the words. Every­ body has met the braggart who coruscates at lunch, but fails unheroically when the testing time comes. Unfortunately, he is not confined to cricket. Under the title of “ Bombastes,” Mr. Gale hits off re­ morselessly the boastful one who scored the double duck. One is at a loss, by-the- way, to understand why the author does not borrow the whole of the classic title ; the second part would surely have been equally appropriate, In dazzling pads Bombastes went To give the bowling beans; He stalked along in sweet content. Triumphant in his ’teens. He launched his muscle at a slow, But heard the timber clink ; Bombastes homeward sped and said, “ Whatever do yon think 1 Bowled by a beastly lob, confound i t ! Jumped in too far and hit all round it I Easy enough to now expound it— Eow’.ed by a beastly lob 1” At luncheon time Bombastes swore by all the gods of cricket to be revenged, but failed,for in the second innings he troubled the scorer no more than in the first, which is precisely the sort of thing to make a man take to golf, did he not fear to join the crowd so delightfully satirised by Mr. Gale in “ 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 heroio, And magnifioently stoic, In a dress of such a pattern As would fright the good God Saturn ? Clever people talk of “ the psychological moment.” What is it ? Where is it ? When is it? Your cricketer knows. There is only one moment that deserves so for­ midable an adjective; it is that which follows the question :—“ Row's that, umpire ? And then there may or may not come the cry, “ Chuck her up, the subject of one of Mr. Gale’s best. How decent when free of each Latin rule To dash on jou r whites and rush to the field. To do or die for the sake of your sohool Where many have slogged and many appealed 1 You feel in your heart like such ohaps as Grace, Or Surrey’s old glory, the steadfast Jupp, When you yell " How’s that ? " to the umpire, Pratt, And the oracle says—1 Chuck her up 1 ’ ’ ’Twas a catch that dismissed the finest foe, And your Captain hastens to pat jou r back 1 So you modestly oill it a flake, and show The mark through the glove and the thumb­ nail's crack ; But Pater, watching the matoh from the tent, Remembers your wish for a Bernard pup, And makes up his mind to be extra kind For the sake of the shout-—1 Chuok her up 1" “ Out ” is the curt but ominous title of another song, which will appeal chiefly to the sixth form. It tells how, his first innings being brought to a premature close, the sad batsman got another innings of another kind elsewhere. *•Duck,” too, “ Bub it in,” and “ Buttered,’’ are poems which cry out for quotation, but self- restraint is one of the cricketer s virtues, and we refrain. Our virtue will not, how­ ever, allow us to pass by “ The Church Cricketant ” ; to leave it unquoted would be little short of a sin. In it the poet revels with reiterative glee in an exploit which must surely have an autobio­ graphical status, so abandoned is the lilt, —Here is its last verse,— I bowled three cricketing priests With three consecutive balls 1 What if a critio 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 1 To parody a famous saying, who would not rather be the author of that poem than perform the hat-trick itself in the next match ? Good Americans when they die are said to go to Paris. When cricketers die who have trod the paths of virtue, who have never buttered a catch nor reckoned a short run, they are trans­ lated to Lord’s. Or, if not, we know not what to make of this, which shall be . positively our last quotation :— When Stoddart makes her hum Up at Lord's, .And the Surrey skipper’s glum Up at Lord’s, Oh I all my odds are even, And (I hops to be forgiveD ) ’Tis a truly cricket heaven Up at Lord’s ! Mr. Gale has made every cricketer his debtor by this little volume. We trust its breezy verses, racy of the sward, will find their way, as they will if they meet with their deserts, into the book-case of many NEXT ISSUE OCTOBER 25