Cricket 1909

420 CR ICKET A WEEKLY RECORD OF THE GAME. S e p t . 23, 1909. The nauseous Flattery, which those Panders pour. And lo ! their ragged Partners of the Field, Seem as well pleas’d the Bat, as Blade to w ield : As well on Cakes, as Carnage to regale, And B lood abhorring, more athirst for A le. ( e ) There H a v o ck points no swords, nor fires his Slugs, But breaks with humbler Rage the Bowls and M u g s: There stead of B r a v e r y , moon-ey’d F o l l y grins, And Blood starts only from a Shoe-black’s shins. The ill-tim ’d Jest, 0 gentle Muse refrain : The weighty Subject asks a serious strain. Unbridled F a c t io n foams, and G ia n t W a r , O ’er H ills of Slaughter drives his furious C a r: W ith Cries, America’s fair Vallies ling, Where wild A m b itio n waves the bloodstain’d W ing, Where M u r d e r ’s Demons maddiog shout around, And H o r r o r heaves to Heav’n the Groan profound: A Groan, to bid the Tomb’s pale Tenants wake: That bids Britannia to her Centre shake. Yet now whilst D a n g e r ’s Clouds with Thunder clad, O ’erwhelming, frights the Nation with its Shade, B lin d to the threatning Gloom, behold a Pair, The Sports of beardless Boys with Beggars share; Those Titles stain, which e’er they were their own, Commanded Rev’rence and with Lustre shone. Perhaps, my Lords, in P in d a r you have seen, (In G i l b e r t W e s t 's Translation, ’tis I mean ; For Lords despise the Pedantry of Greek, Scarce their own English deign to write or speak) How at th’ Olympics, Greece turn’d out to run, To ride, to wrestle, many a gallaut Son ; Therefore you take for Truth (how well you nick i t !) Greece yields a good Apology for Cricket. My Lords learn belter . . . Glory form’d each Game, To bid the Youth with Emulation flame . . . To Rhine in desperate Battle, and oppose W ith B r a v e r y ’s boldest Arm their Country’s Foes. Sweet as the Flowers that deck his honour’d Grave Is F a m e ’s rich Iucense, that embalms the B ra v e ! Divine the Music of her Song, that flows How soothing, to the Spectre’s pale Repose ! . . . Who treads the solemn Isles of yonder Dome,* Where Warriors, Statesmen, Poets grace the Tomb, And looks on those fair Monuments of Fame, Nor kindles high at each immortal Name, Feels not his Heart, with sacred Ardors, rage, To live forever in th’ Historic Page ; * Westminster Abbey. (<?) Tom D’Urfey, whilst on a visit to the 1st Duke of Dorset at Knowle in 1721, wrote a poem “ On the Incomparable Strong Beer of Knowle.’' (D’Urfey was acquainted with cricket, as is evident from the fact that he mentioned the game in his play “ The Richmond Heiress,” published in 1093, and in the editio pHneeps of his “ Wit and Mirth : or Pills to Purge Melancholy,” 1699.) For such , with hapless N a t c e e , I condole, And pity her poor M onster from my S oul! I know your Lordships gape like Sharks, for Praise, But rake it not from Dunghills and H igh ­ ways . . . Is Fame from Cricket, Children’s sport, to spring 1 You mount to G lo e y on a Cuckow’s W in g ! To feel the Heart for such mean Tribute throb, As the loud Plaudit of the mole-ey’d Mob ; G ods! what a T aste! . . . degrading to a C rim e! ............................................ (/) Admit, my Lords, a whisper to your Ear . . . Tho’ Fools, alas ! in London you appear ; For Godsake, do not to the W orld relate W hat Patagonian Follies rule the G re at: Let other Folks, your idle Deeds proclaim . . . Damn not y o u r s e l v e s to everlasting Fame. You penn’d this dainty Paragraph ’tissaid . . . “ *On Tuesday last a Cricket Match was play’d . . . “ B y D . . s . . t’s Duke most marv’lous Feats were done, “ W ho bravely batting, forty Notches won : “ After the Victory, the noble W inner “ Sat down, and made a very hearty Dinner.” Are these my Lord your Honours ? . . . fie for shame ! Regard (and blush) the fairest Page of Fam e: See a long Race amidst her Annals shine, In War, the Senate, a distinguish’d Line, And blush repentant on yourself, their Heir, Degenerate dwindled to a Cricket Player ! If the low sordid fame of Cricketer, Your Grace, to nobler Titles can prefer, Yield up your native Honours, yield ’em all, Then go, and reigu the Rival of Sam : S m a ll. S a y , doughty Lord, when merry in your H all W ith G a n g , in Converse high, on Bat and Ball, Speak . . . did you never, by the merest Chance, Your Eye, upon the good old Pictures glance? Shades of those Men whose Fame, all Time, defies: Whose Deaths too early, drew their Country’s Sighs ? Zounds! if you had, believe the Muse, your Grace Had seen the Blush of Shame on every Face: Lamenting too, perhaps, their want of Powers To leave their Frames, to kick you out of Doors. I ’m told, when kept from Cricket by the Showers, You k ill with equal Happiness your Hours : ’T is said, for Vermin, that you hunt the House, And run on Tables, Louse ’gainst B rother Lous ’, W ith Pins by way of Spurs to poke their Hips, And d l l your Racers Nabob and Eclipse : Sweet Babes! pray Children have you still your Ears ? What pity, we’ve no Pillories for P . . rs ! “ Honour thy Father,” says a Christian Rule . . . W hat if the Father be an Ape, a Fool ? M y Lords, you’ve Childreu, . . . then I ’m bold to say, Their filial Rev’rence all, is thrown away. Plead not excuse, because it is the Aae King Logs have trod, and tread poor Europe's Stage : I grant that Denmark's Pageant is a Fool : * This is nearly literal from the News-papers that recorded the glorious Atchievement. ( /) One line is purposely omitted here. That France’s WThelp was never whipp’d at School: I grant an Ass Sicilia’s Scepter sways : That equal Folly, Father Spain betrays; Howe’er each Muse the Monarch’s Fame may pipe, Fo r wond’rous Skill in knocking down a *Snipe. I grant that Portugal’s late King, of Brain, H id less than ev’n a Nutshell m ight contain, W hich shows, Heav’n thinks (a mortifying Thing !) That any Trash w ill serve to make a K in g . I grant the Prussian, who so loves a Slave, T h o ’ not a Simpleton, a crafty Knave, ............................................. (o) I grant that A fric’s Emperor is a Hog . . . A Beast of Prey, a vile unchristian Dog, Who brought his Subjects down to M isr’y’s Door, And when the Robber found they had no more, Proud in the Scale of Cruelty to rise, He taxed their Heads, and ordered out their Eyes: Thus Muley issued his divine Decree, That if they could not p a y , they should not see : The Balls were scoop’d, and pickled for the Court Then barrell’d, sent to make I m p e r ia l S p o r t .! Yet V ice nor F o l l y ceases to defile, However honor’d by a Monarch’s Smile . . . Alas! could these from Kings obtain a Name, A Newgate, Bedlam, were thy Temple, F am e. Think on the Name of Briton, what a sound ! That carries awe to Earth’sextremestBound! But say from whence, the Fame of Albion sprung That glorious rings, and hath for Ages rung? L o ! by a Sidney, Dorset, Marlborough, Hyde ; O’er other Realms she tow’rs with conscious P rid e : Her Locke, her Newton the world’s wonder drew . . . Far different Gentlefolks . . . my Lords . . . from you . . . Her Franklin, who the Lightning’s Power defies, And drags to Earth the T y ra n t of the Skies; Smiles at his Rage, in iron Fetters bound, And chains his flaming Pinions to the Ground. You’ll say that “ Nature with you, took no pains. . . . That when she made your Forms she wanted B r a in s ; And caring not a Straw for either Head, She furnish’d each Vacuity with L e a d .” Madness, or Ignorance, may approve your Plea, Too gross, too palpable to pass on M e. . . . Hero, or Legislator, tho’ not born, A Lord may live without a Nation’s Scorn: T h o ’ helpless to preserve a State distrest, He may preserve some Decency at least. Trust me, a bad Example ’mongst the Great, Becomes a dire Contagion to the State. . . . The little Folks look up with W onder's Eye, To Lords, as Beings of another S k y , Nor dream that N a tu re as is oft her way, Makes such fine Beings of her fo u lest Clay. Like Children at a Show where Punch appears, And iants, and storms, and threats, and fights, and swears. . . . The Urchins gaping at the B u lly’s Brags, * His Majesty is particularly happy at Snipe- shooting ; beats his Subjects all to nothing at this royal amusement; and is only equall’d in dexterity by that manly Gentlewoman his Sister, who is a dead hand at a wild Pig. t The Cruelties perpetrated by the savage Emperors of Morocco, exceed all belief. g Four lines, referring to the Empress Catherine of Russia, occur here, but cannot be reproduced.