Ye’re off to some sea coast, recruiting health—
To shooting, angling, county ball, or romp.
But here the milkman calleth every morn,
The sparrows twitter, seeking to be fed;
The maid’s shrill signal, then is ruthless torn,
The man of business from his downy bed.
Come then, thou frequent, fast suburban train—
The river steamer, wherry, gig, or horse—
Let us enjoy the grassy open plain,
And cultivate our cricket, or “La Crosse;”