A Century of Parody and Imitation

by Unknown

WAKE! FOR THE RUDDY BALL HAS TAKEN FLIGHT.

(EDWARD FITZGERALD)

I.

Wake! for the Ruddy Ball has taken flight

That scatters the slow Wicket of the Night;

And the swift Batsman of the Dawn has driven

Against the Star-spiked Rails a fiery Smite.

Wake, my Belovèd! take the Bat that clears

The sluggish Liver, and Dyspeptics cheers:

To-morrow? Why, to-morrow I may be

Myself with Hambledon and all its Peers.

To-day a Score of Batsmen brings, you say?

Yes, but where leaves the Bats of yesterday?

And this same summer day that brings a Knight

May take the Grace and Ranjitsinjh away.

Willsher the famed is gone with all his 'throws,'

And Alfred's Six-foot Reach where no man knows;

And Hornby—that great hitter—his own Son

Plays in his place, yet recks not the Red Rose.

And Silver Billy, Fuller Pilch and Small,

Alike the pigmy Briggs and Ulyett tall,

Have swung their Bats an hour or two before,

But none played out the last and silent Ball.

Well, let them Perish! What have we to do

With Gilbert Grace the Great, or that Hindu?

Let Hirst and Spooner slog them as they list,

Or Warren bowl his 'snorter'; care not you!

With me along the Strip of Herbage strown,

That is not laid or watered, rolled or sown,

Where name of Lord's and Oval is forgot,

And peace to Nicholas on his bomb-girt Throne.

A level Wicket, as the Ground allow,

A driving Bat, a lively Ball, and thou

Before me bowling on the Cricket-Pitch—

O Cricket-pitch were Paradise enow!

II.

I listened where the Grass was shaven small,

And heard the Bat that groaned against the Ball:

Thou pitchest Here and There, and Left and Right,

Nor deem I where the Spot thou next may'st Fall.

Forward I play, and Back, and Left and Right,

And overthrown at once, or stay till Night:

But this I know, where nothing else I know,

The last is Thine, how so the Bat shall smite.

This thing is sure, where nothing else is sure,

The boldest Bat may but a Space endure;

And he who One or who a Hundred hits

Falleth at ending to thy Force or Lure.

Wherefore am I allotted but a Day

To taste Delight, and make so brief a stay;

For Meed of all my Labour laid aside,

Ended alike the Player and the Play?

Behold, there is an Arm behind the Ball,

Nor the Bat's Stroke of its own Striking all;

And who the Gamesters, to what end the Game,

I think thereof our Willing is but small.

Against the Attack and Twist of Circumstance

Though I oppose Defence and shifty Glance,

What Power gives Nerve to me, and what Assaults,—

This is the Riddle. Let dull bats cry 'Chance.'

Is there a Foe that [domineers] the Ball?

And one that Shapes and wields us Willows all?

Be patient if Thy Creature in Thy Hand

Break, and the so-long-guarded Wicket fall!

Thus spoke the Bat. Perchance a foolish Speech

And wooden, for a Bat has straitened Reach:

Yet thought I, I had heard Philosophers

Prate much on this wise, and aspire to Teach.

Ah, let us take our Stand, and play the Game,

But rather for the Cause than for the Fame;

Albeit right evil is the Ground, and we

Know our Defence thereon will be but lame.

O Love, if thou and I could but Conspire

Against this Pitch of Life, so false with Mire,

Would we not Doctor it afresh, and then

Roll it out smoother to the Bat's Desire?

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