With me they are merry and gay;
Each game they enjoy more and more,
And are cheered by the “rallies” they play.
When driven with judgment and skill,
How swiftly my balls cleave the air,
And “topping the net” by an inch,
Call for no little caution and care;
How merrily, too, sound my cries,
Though strangers can’t make out their use;
My language is strange, I admit,