THE GAME OF FIVES.

SPRIGHTLY Sons of manly Sport,
Haste to pleasure's spacious court;
Murmur not how chances fall,

First strike hands, then strike the ball;
Win or lose at trifling bets:
Laughed at be the man that frets!

Now observe the marker's call;
Hear him rally, "Fourteen all !
Down to five again we 're set,
Six hands in and scarce a let;
Let which will the victory claim,
'T is, my boys, a well-fought game!

For an evening's active sport
To the "Angel" we resort;
Where in heartfelt, sportive glee,
Worn-down veterans smile to see
Youthful vigour tripping round
Pleasure's consecrated ground.

Fives among the sons of fame
Was the ancient Britons' game;
Mixed with prudence still the wise
Call it healthful exercise;
Ne'er let good old customs drop,
Strike the ball and keep it up!

Round the world, the seasons through,
Youth their various sports pursue;
Some resort where cards are seen,
Some the cockpit, some the green;
Ours against the stately wall
Is to jerk the bounding ball.

JOHN FREETH, 1790.

Sweep sweep

sweep

sweep

Across tree-shadows grey or green,
By shelving beach of crinkling sand,
And deeps where drowsing cattle stand;
By meadow's rim, by mill-wheel's brim,
By white vine-suited cottage trim,
And where the red vine-clusters peep,

Sweep sweep - sweep

And the strong white eddies leap

Where the broad blades run in the burning sun With their sweep-sweep - sweep

By mouldering pier-heads that still keep
Their watch and ward on silent streams,

By grand-dams in wide doors asleep

And dreaming who shall say what dreams; And further in cool breaths of pine That taste like some old-vintaged wine,

Where scarce one ray of the saffron day Through the arch of the incense shrine makes

way,

Where the shadowy walls an echo make

To the sweep-sweep-sweep And the dancing globes in my wake Of tree-top line and gold-leaf shine The tinted image take.

Now where great domes of cloud-land drift,

Sweep-sweep

Now where long shafts of sunlight shift, Through blue and white and golden brown, Where sloping fields of the wheat come down, Where through burnt fume of summer bloom The slender village steeples loom

Or broken lie in the bow-wave's curl,

Sweep-sweep-sweep

And the face of a country girl

Round-eyed and brown from the bridge looks down

To watch the foam-wreaths whirl.

Sweep-sweep

- sweep

The oar rings true like a crystal bell;
Sweep-sweep — sweep

The rushes lie in the tiny swell;

And the treble tinkling of the song

Up where the keen prow shears along

Keeps tune and time with the plashing chime,

Keeps note for note with the sterner rhyme

Of the grumbling gear of the sliding seat.

Sweep sweep

--

sweep

And beneath the hard-pressed feet
The ripples rise, the slim bow flies
To the song of the sliding seat.

CHARLES EDWARD Russell.

THE HUNDRED YARD DASH.

GIVE me a race that is run in a breath,
Straight from the start to the tape;

Distance hath charms, but a "ding-dong" means death,

Death without flowers and crape.

"On your mark !” "Set!" For a moment we strain,

Held by a leash all unseen;

"P'ff!" We are off, from the pistol we gain Yards, if the starter 's not keen.

Off like lean greyhounds, the cinders scarce stir

Under the touch of our feet;

Flashes of sunlight, the crowd's muffled purr, The rush of the wind, warm and sweet.

One last fierce effort, the red worsted breaks,
Struggle and strain are all past;

Only ten ticks of the watch, but it makes
First, second, third, and the last.

WILLIAM LINDSEY.

IN SPRING.

GRASS begins to grow,
Winds to be more civil,
Rollers press the pitch

For to make it level:
Thrushes pipe a stave

In the budding thicket; Snowdrops point to pads, Crocuses to Cricket!

Soon will stand the Slip
Crouching for a capture,
Soon the slogger slog

Fours and fives in rapture!
Soon the curly lob

Find its love, the wicket; Snowdrops point to pads, Crocuses to Cricket!

Urchins in the road

Bowl with oblong pebbles, Sending to each mate

Bursts of happy trebles:
In the words of slang,
Summer is the ticket!

Snowdrops point to pads,
Crocuses to Cricket!

NORMAN GALE.