POETRY.
HAMBLED ON.
And whenever a Hambledon man made a good bit you would
hear the deep months of the whole multitude baying away in pure Hampshire, ' Go hard I go hard 1 Tich and tarn! Tich and turn l' "—Nrasil.] You, batsmen of our later days, Who stand erect and proud, What time your frequent
"fourers " raise The plaudits of the crowd, Here is the kindled zeal aflame That first began to burn, Where those old Hampshire yokels came And shouted, " Tich and turn!" You, critics with the captious eyes, Your vigilant review From the pavilion balconies Is nothing strange or new ; Your prototypes were met in strength With sapient nod and smile To pass the word on Barber's length Or Harry Walker's style. You, patrons of the cheaper seats, The fervour and the thirst With which you celebrate the feats Of Hayward or of Hirst, Recall the rustic partisan Who drank to the renown Of Small or Scott, or Noah Mann, Long since, onWindmill Down.
When to acclaim the master. stroke Our modern cries resound, Applause that cleaves the Sheffield smoke, Or thunders from the Mound, What is it but the village voice
That made the welkin ring, To hail the champions of its
choice, When Farmer George was Ring ? To rank and wealth in all their pride Upon the coach displayed, To impecunious youth astride The playground's palisade, To ardent patriots on the tram, Who follow by degrees From cablegram to cablegram, The Test match overseas, The fever spreads : while far away, Across the vanished years, Ring forth on afternoons of May Those Hambledonian cheers : That strange enchantment, after all, They were the first to learn, Who watched the strife of bat and ball
With shouts of " Tich and turn !"
A. C.
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