We hadna train'd but ower a week,

A week, but barely twa,

Three sonsie steeds they fared to seek,
That mightna gar them fa'.

They 've ta'en us ower the lang, lang coorse,

And wow! but it was wark;

And ilka coach he sware him hoorse,

That ilka man s'uld hark.

Then upped and spake our pawkie bow, –

O, but he wasna late!

"Now who shall gar them cry Enow,

That gang this fearsome gate?”

Syne he has ta’en his boatin' cap,
And cast the keevils in,

And wha but me to gae (God hap!)
And stay our Captain's din?

I stayed his din by the meadow-gate,
His feres, by Nuneham brig,
And waefu', waefu', was the fate
That gar'd them there to lig!

O waly to the welkin's top!

And waly round the braes! And waly all about the shop

(To use a Southron phrase).

Rede ither crews be debonair,
But we 've a weird to dree,
I wis we maun be bumpit sair

By boaties two and three:

Sing stretchers of yew for our Toggere,
Sith we maun bumpit be!

ARTHUR T. QUILLER-COUCH.

ON THE SPOT.

NOTHING Comes amiss,

Kicker, shooter, yorker!
How the Champion bangs
Lob or cunning corker!
Let the watchers scold
Bowlers young or old,
Censure matters not
Grace is on the spot!

The Champion 's on the spot again
To stop the Gloucester rot again,
And bowling goes to pot again
Before the King of Cricket!

Well may fielders pant,

Fourer after fourer!
Now the pace is warm

Even for the scorer.
This is simply joy-
Lump it in, Old Boy!
Don't she skip along?

Grace is going strong!

The Champion's going strong again,
He makes her move along again;
There's very little wrong again,
With Grace, the King of Cricket!

NORMAN GALE.

There's a caddie beside her, another before;

And she handles her clubs with a confident

ease,

For my lady is playing the game, if you please, And gives strictest attention to bunkers and tees,

When my lady plays golf.

When my lady plays golf you must always avoid

Any subject but golf, or she 'll be much annoyed;

For if she should let her mind wander, I fear She would "go off her game," and you'd presently hear

Far stronger expressions than simply "Oh dear!

When my lady plays golf.

When my lady plays golf then of stance and of grip

She's as careful as if in the championship;

And when she leaves off at the close of the day,

And her caddies are paid, and her clubs put away

(Which never occurs till it's too dark to play), Then my lady talks golf.

ANONYMOUS.

THE LINKS OF LOVE.

My heart is like a driver-club,

That heaves the pellet hard and straight, That carries every let and rub,

The whole performance really great;
My heart is like a bulger-head,
That whiffles on the wily tee,
Because my love has kindly said

She 'll halve the round of life with me.

My heart is also like a cleek,
Resembling most the mashie sort,
That spanks the object, so to speak,
Across the sandy bar to port;
And hers is like a putting-green,
The haven where I boast to be,
For she assures me she is keen

To halve the round of life with me.

Raise me a bunker, if you can,
That beetles o'er a deadly ditch,
Where any but the bogey-man
Is practically bound to pitch;
Plant me beneath a hedge of thorn,

Or up a figurative tree,

What matter, when my love has sworn

To halve the round of life with me?

OWEN SEAMAN.

BALLADE OF CRICKET.

(TO T. W. LANG.)

THE burden of hard hitting : Slog away!
Here shalt thou make a five and there a four,
And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,

That thou art in for an uncommon score.
Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,
And thou to rival Thornton shall aspire,

When lo! the Umpire gives thee "legbefore,"

"This is the end of every man's desire !"

The burden of much bowling, when the stay

Of all thy team is collared, swift or slower, When bailers break not in their wonted way, And yorkers come not off as heretofore. When length balls shoot no more, ah, never

more,

When all deliveries lose their former fire,

When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,

"This is the end of every man's desire! "

The burden of long fielding, when the clay Clings to thy shoon in sudden showers down

pour,

And running still thou stumblest, or the ray
Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,
And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,
Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a skyer

And lose a match the Fates can not restore, "This is the end of every man's desire!