For Death to bowl the Major's wicket,
(The Major swears he has no fear
That Paradise is short of cricket!)
If in the time of pad and crease
His soul receives its last advices,
With final paper on his bed
I know the Major will be wed
To cricket first--and then the crisis!




CRICKET AND CUPID.


She understands the game no more
Than savages the sun's eclipse;
For all she knows the bowler throws,
And Square-Leg stands among the Slips:
And when in somersaults a stump
Denotes a victim of the game,
Her lovely throat begets a lump,
Her cheeks with indignation flame.

She scarce can keep her seat, and longs
To cheer the fallen hero's fate;
Her fingers clench upon the bench
As if it were the Trundler's pate!
Because this rascal's on the spot
Her passion fails to be concealed;