"ON THE GAME OF CRICKET.
Assist all ye muses and join to rehearse An old English sport never praised yet in verse.
'Tis cricket I sing, of illustrious fame, No nation e'er boasted so noble a game.
Great Pindar has bragged of his heroes of old, Some were swift in the race, some in battle were bold; The brows of the victor with olive were crowned, Hark they shout, and Olympia returns the glad sound.
What boasting of Pollux and Castor his brother, The one famed for riding, for bruising the other, But compared with our heroes, they'll not shine at all, What are Castor and Pollux to Nyren and Small?
There's guarding, and catching, and throwing, and tossing, And bowling, and striking, and running, and crossing, Each mate must excel in some principal part, The Pentathlon of Greece could not show so much art.
The parties are met and arrayed all in white, Famed Elis ne'er boasted so pleasing a sight, Each nymph looks askew at her favourite swain, And views him half stript both with pleasure and pain.
The wickets are pitched now and measured the ground, Then they form a large ring and stand gazing around; Since Ajax fought Elector in sight of all Troy, No contest was seen with such fears and such joy.
Ye bowlers take heed to my precepts attend, On you the whole fate of the game must depend, Spare your vigour at first, nor exert your full strength, Then measure each step and be sure pitch a length.
Ye strikers observe when the foe shall draw nigh, Mark the bowler advancing with vigilant eye, Your skill all depends upon distance and sight, Stand firm to your scratch, let your bat be upright.
Ye fieldsmen look sharp lest your pains ye beguile, Move close like an army in rank and in file, When the ball is returned, back it sure, for I trow Whole states have been ruined by one overthrow.
The sport is now o'er and victory rings, Echo doubles the chorus and fame spreads her wings, Let us then hail our champions all sturdy and true, Such as Homer ne'er sung of, nor Pinder e'er knew.
Buck, Curry, and Hogsflesh, and Barber, and Brett, Whose swiftness in bowling was ne'er equalled yet, I had almost forgot they deserve a large bumper, Little George the longstop and Tom Sutor the stumper.
Then why should we fear either Sackville or Man, Or repine at the loss both of Boynton and Latin? With such troops as these we'll be lords of the game, Spite of Minshul, and Millar, and Lumpy, and Frame.
Then fill up your glass, he's the best who drinks most: Here's the Hambledon Club Who refuses the toast ? Let us join in the praise of the bat and the wicket, And sing in full chorus the patrons of cricket."
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