A SONG FOR THE SLOGGER.
(By One who has seen him Smite.)
[During the Scarborough Cricket Week, Mr. C. I. Thornton, the champion slogger of England and enthusiastic supporter of the sport, was presented with a silver trophy, representing himself at the wicket, as a memento of the great part he has taken in the Scarborough Festival since its institution in 1869. Playing in the second innings of M. C. C. against Yorkshire, Mr. Thornton batted as energetically as ever, and twice drove the ball out of the ground.]
Great Thornton the slogger, it comes as a jogger
To memory this tale of your trophy well merited.
Great Scott! how time's flitting. Your gift of tall-hitting,
Which no one—save Bonnor—has fully inherited,
You showed e'en at Eton. It has not been beaten.
You'd whip even Jehu at "furious driving."
Not dashing O'Brien could lick the old Lion
Of Cambridge, whose fire is still plainly surviving.
The pet of the Million, you've cleared the pavilion,
And spanked the ball many times "over the paling,"
Here's health to you "Buns!" may you score lots of runs,
And oft stir the crowd with your spirit unfailing.
How often I'd watch when they "bowled for a catch,"
And you gave 'em one, truly, but in the next parish!
You'd run up your hundred, while "all the world wondered,"
In less than an hour, Sir, a pace wear-and-tearish.
Though pedants demur, mighty smiting will stir,
So "more power to your elbow," great Slogger of Sixes!
Ah! if you should play in the Shades some fine day,
The Elysium Fields, in the old Oval way,
They must "spread," and you'll then clear the bounds, though they're Styx's!!!