There shall his Century be achieved,
Larkspurs and tiger-lilies humbled,
Geraniums of their fire bereaved,
And calceolarias torn and tumbled.
With fairy craft from dusk to dawn
Quaint Puck himself may bowl half-volleys,
But I have vowed, by love and lawn,
To weed one thistle from my follies!




THE PRINCE, BATTING.


As out of a cannon comes the ball!
Quickly it flies to the human wall.
Didn't it go with a will and a whiz?
How lovely it is! How lovely it is!

Four to the east, and four to the west!
Arrowy shots at the Umpire's chest!
Placid the sinewy batsman beams--
How easy it seems! How easy it seems

Watch! For a ball we could barely poke
The master hand and the radiant stroke!
Glances and cuts and drives and hooks--
How easy it looks! How easy it looks!