Tip for a Trundler.
(In the Off Season.)
Cricket is over; the Summer fails: Do you feel rather out in the cold, Sir? Well have a shy at "professional bails": And the Public will cry, "Well bowled, Sir!"
A SEA-QUENCE OF SONNETS.
(Supposed to have been "written in Mid-Channel." See published Works of Alfr-d A-st-n.)
I.
This is the sea that great Britannia rules! The waves salute their mistress. Still I see Far in our wake the white cliffs of the free. Arise, O tempest, blow, disturb these pools! Ye waves, I love you! Let the puling fools Prate as they will, but let me ever be Tossed on your foaming crests. I shout with glee. While the North wind my poet's forehead cools.
O guernseyed sailors, I am of your kin: I too have in my blood the scorn of fear That faced the storm, what time th' embattled din Broke on Trafalgar, and an answering cheer From British throats proclaimed, "We win! we win!"—— Dear me, what's this? Ahem! I'm feeling queer.
II.