The Spaniard with his javelin knife
The wild bull’s flesh he tears;
But alack a-day! what sports are they
With our grand cricketeers.
And well old Keighley can be proud
Of her famed sons to-day;
Some of them are with us yet,
While others are away.
Brave Brown! brave Foulds and Waring,
With good men in the rear,
And not forgetting Emmett,
The brave old cricketeer.
Then while they have their Grand Bazaar,
Pray let us rally round,
And give a hand to renovate
Their well-loved cricket ground.
For well I wot both young and old,
Will find from year to year,
More interest in the noble sport
Of the grand old cricketeer.
The Mexican may throw his lance,
The Scotchman put his stone,
With all the scientific skill
Of muscle and of bone.
Give Switzerland her honour’d place
With rifles and with spears,
But give to me our grand old sport,
Our famous cricketeers.
Christmas Day.
Sweet lady, ’tis no troubadour,
That sings so sweetly at your door,
To tell you of the joys in store,
So grand and gay;
But one that sings “Remember th’ poor,
’Tis Christmas Day.”