A LONG GRACE.
(W.G. Grace's XI. versus XXII. of Bath.)
Nothing went right. The Champion cut
And drove and glanced, and cut again,
Till every bowler we possessed
Deep down within his smarting breast
Half wished he'd lost that early train!
Dobbin went on with Sneaks,
Robin appeared with Tweaks,
And Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard,
Contributed Lightning Streaks!
Nothing went right. The Champion's bat
Seemed twice the breadth of postern door.
The leather flew at pace immense
To crackle on the boundary fence,
Acknowledged by the public roar.
Dobbin went on with Tweaks,
Robin obliged with Sneaks,
And Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard,
Exhibited Lightning Streaks!
Nothing went right. At last, at last
A bell (than Angelus more fair!)
Rang respite for the fieldsmen who,
By sprinting hard from twelve to two,
Had scarce a ragged breath to spare.
Robin abstained from Sneaks,
Dobbin abandoned Tweaks,
And Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard,
Prohibited Lightning Streaks!
Luncheon went right. The weary team
Found benches, beer, and salad sweet.
But asking blessing was too bad,
Because they all were somewhat sad
From too much Grace before their meat!
Health to your noble name,
Monarch in fact and fame,
From twenty-two hearty lads in a party
Broadened and bronzed by the Game!