"OVER!"
Or, The Battle of the Bats.
The Lion and the Kangaroo
Fighting for the Crown,
The Lion licked the Kangaroo—
Helped by Mister Brown!
Air—"Battle of the Baltic."
Of Stoddart—splendid name!—
Sing the rapturous renown,
When our boys to battle came,
All to win the Cricket Crown;
Though Australia once again the toss had won.
But the Britons took their stand
In a bold determined band,
And the Best Bat in the Land
Led them on.
Like "Leviathan" in form,
Little Gregory laid on,
Doughty Darling made it warm,
And George Giffen, fadeless one,
Smote our trundlers with a coolness quite sublime.
Four—One—Four! The "wire" so saith!—
There was silence deep as death,
And our boldest held his breath
For a time.
But the hopes of England flushed
On that mighty Melbourne green;
How young Ward and Stoddart rushed
O'er the space those stumps between!
Sixty-eight our Captain piled, and the fun
Cool Maclaren kept alive;
With Six-Score! Bob Peel did strive,
And our score was Three—Eight—Five!
Ere 'twas done!
Australia once again!
And the scoring does not slack.
May kind heaven avert the rain,
Till the last bat hies him back!
At good shots how the cheers break and boom
Round the ring!—and oh! the wail
At the click of flying bail,
As the Richardsonian hail
Pelts—like doom!
Good Grey George, the Australian Chief,
Smote again his swashing blows.
Mingled sounds of joy and grief
From the Melbourne ring arose!
When the stumps again are drawn for the day
Brockwell, prey to bad luck's blight,
Is again out of the fight,
Ward and Stoddart in, to smite
As they may.
Two—six—nine more runs to make!
And one leading wicket down!—
Old World, let thine echoes wake
With the honoured name of Brown,
Yorkshire Brown, the last selected, but not least,
Oh! to see him smite and run,
With Lancashire's great gun,
Albert Ward, to share the fun
Was a feast!
One-forty! Ninety-three!
Though, for once, stout Stoddart failed,
That left few more runs, d'ye see?
And though Trott and Giffen hailed
At the stumps, and Jarvis watched like a cat,
Young Maclaren and Bob Peel
Won the match slap off the reel,
By six wickets! How d'ye feel
John, at that?
Out spake the victor then
(And we echo him o'er the wave),
"Ye are brothers, trumps, and men!
And it was the narrowest shave
That victory to us Britons did allot.
That Crown, as is but meet,
We will lay at England's feet.
But by George, you're bad to beat—
George's Lot!"
Now joy, Old England raise
For the tidings of that fight.
Gallant Stoddart crown with bays!
When the wine-cup brims to-night
His name will sound the loudest midst the roar.
Thanks to him, and Mister Brown,
And some others of renown,
We still keep the Cricket Crown
On our shore.
But though Lion-Stoddart wears
That proud wreath, the Kangaroo
("Old Man" Giffen) fairly shares,
With his good and gallant crew,
The best honours of the game they fought to save.
At the wickets far from flats,
In the field they were like cats.
So here's power to the Bats
Of the Brave.
