At the stumps, whither, backward, we hurried,
We slogged the ball wildly with all our might,
The sods with our willow-bats turning:
But the leather was caught, and held so tight,
And our cheeks with shame were burning.
No useless figures my scoring blest,
Not in cut or in drive I found them;
But they lay like the egg of the duck in a nest,
With a line drawn all around them.
Few, too few, were the runs we could claim,