A kick, a shout, a miss? no, no, the shot speeds swift and true,

And Oxford yells in triumph, for Rhodes has kicked it through.

Yet did not our men falter, the thought came to their mind,

How Cambridge once were last at Barnes, two lengths, I trow, behind;

How gallant Pitman roused his crew, caught Oxford on the nap,

And with a hero's effort closed at last that fear

ful gap.

And how, though Oxford spurted too, in one terrific burst

He left his foemen standing still, and passed the post the first.

What Pitman did upon the Thames, shall Cotterrill do on land.

A quarter of an hour remains, quick, comrades, take your stand!

And now the cheers swell louder, see, see they join the fight,

Now Gosling speeds with Cotterrill in a rush upon the right.

Veitch has it now, the brawny-backed whose hair is black as coal,

On, on, like lightning, see he kicks - whoo-oop! he's kicked a goal!

Now is their spirit broken, six minutes still remain,

Now Cotterrill like a storm bursts forth, and Cambridge scores again.

Next Stanbrough kicks another goal, and so with three to one,

While shouts of "Cambridge!" rend the sky, the hard-fought game is done.

Now cheer we all for Cotterrill, who led his gallant ten,

And cheer for each and all of them, those sturdy Cambridge men.

And oh, thou kindly mother, dear Cambridge, be thou proud

Of those who sped the flying ball, and "passed in any crowd.

Grey time must steal them from thy arms, yet though the years may roll,

They still shall live in story, these guardians of the goal.

So when the Oxford shouts grow loud, when goals come thick and fast,

When Cambridge forwards falter, when Cambridge backs are passed,

Or when at Barnes our oarsmen fail in feather and in grip,

And Oxford, leading through the Bridge, spurts onward to the Ship,

Then, when the clouds are blackest, and craven

hearts would yield,

Remember Pitman on the flood, and Cotterrill

on the field!

R. C. LEHMANN.

1

DIANAS OF TO-DAY.

(TO THE WOMen golfers of america.)

DIANA, goddess of the chase,
Superb in stature, girt with grace,
Was prototype, 't is truth to say,
Of women golfers of to-day ;

For supple-limbed and strong was she,
And clear of eye, and fair to see.

Could she, Apollo's twin, who roamed
The rugged rocky shores where combed
The surf around fair Delos' isle,

Or climbed the Cynthian slopes the while,
And chased the stag with shaft and bow,
With ruddy health and strength aglow, ---

Could she come back to earth, I say,
And view the links some sunny day
When women golfers charm the scene
And grace the trim and velvet green,
Her feathered shafts she 'd fling away,
And take to polished clubs, and play.

Let Muses live in classic verse;
Let bards the beauty bright rehearse
Of Goddesses, and Graces three,
Who ornament mythology,
But better than them all, I say,
The lady golfers of to-day.

--

FRANCIS BOWLER KEENE.

BALLAD OF THE PIGSKIN.

(TO A. A. STAGG.)

WHEN the crowd has cheered the hostile teams and the band has played its best,

And roaring rooters warmed the lungs within the coldest breast;

When hat and cane and flag and feet have marked each rolling shout,

And the coin has told its little tale and the whistle sounded out

Then the untried, slippery pigskin lies at rest upon the ground,

And silence wraps the people with expectancy profound.

Oh, the kick-off and the tackle and the suddenfooted punt,

And the stillness of the players on a down; And the plunging and the lunging in the swaying battle's brunt,

And the megaphonic cries of town and gown!

Now the ball comes floating downward toward the fullback's opening arms,

And he hugs it for a zigzag shoot through a host of threatening harms;

But the clutches of the tackle snap him hard upon the earth,

And the fumbled ball goes bobbing like a thing of mock and mirth;

Till the centre-rush bends motionless above the

resting sphere,

And the fronting lines stand statuesque in hidden hope and fear.

Then the mighty mingled scrimmage works its arms and legs and feet,

Heaping heads and twisted bodies in a chaos most complete ;

But five yards is a journey for a head that is n't

stone,

And harder than a wooden wall is a wall of human bone;

So the bleachers lift their megaphones to breathe a bracing cheer,

And the rooters' "Hold 'em! Hold 'em!" smites the player's anxious ear.

Then from out the mass of strugglers, like a comet from its course,

Shoots a runner on a tangent, with a catapultic force;

And the field spreads fair before him as the path to Paradise,

And his soul leaps up to win it at the dearest sacrifice;

For he hears the yelling people and a mighty stride behind,

And he hopes to live for ever in the football heart enshrined.