'Tis very plain—is garden cricket.
Whack on the bee-hive goes the ball!
"That's six!" screams Noel to the scorer.
A foxglove, steepled best of all,
Now sinks beneath a flying fourer.
Two to the lad's-love; and beyond
The lavender just half-a-dozen;
And TWELVE for dropping in the pond
A rank half-volley from his cousin!
To see my pinks give up the ghost