ALL THE YEAR ROUND;

When September soaks the fields,

And the leaves begin to fall,

Cricket unto Football yields,—

That is all!

Yes—in hot or humid weather,

At all seasons of the year,

Life is little without leather

In a sphere.

In the scrimmage, at the stumps,

'Neath the goal, behind the sticks,

Life's a ball, which Summer thumps,

Winter kicks.

From NAUSICAA—classic girl!

Unto RENSHAW, GUNN, and GRACE,

Balls mankind must kick or hurl,

"Slog" or "place."

Our "terrestrial ball" is round,

(Is it an idea chimerical?)

Man, by hidden instincts bound,

Loves the spherical.

In rotund, elastic bounders,

Plainly the great joy of men is,

Witness cricket, billiards, rounders,

And lawn-tennis.

Now the championship is fixed,

Now the averages are settled,

Spite of critics rather mixed,

Slightly nettled.

Now the heroes of the Goal

Brace themselves for kick and scrummage,

Verily, upon the whole,

'Tis a "rum" age!

Wane the joys of Love, Art, Faction,

Parties rise and Parties fall,

The world's sure centre of attraction

Is a Ball!