UNCLE BOB INDIGNANT.

_("Flannelled fools at the wicket")_


Come, poke the fire, pull round the screen,
And fill me up a glass of grog
Before I tell of matches seen
And heroes of the mighty slog!
While hussies play near mistletoe
The game of kiss-me-if-you-dare,
I'll dig for you in memory's snow,
And where my eager spade shall go
Uncover bliss for you to share,
My Boys!

As sloppiness our sport bereaves
Of what was once a glorious zest,
And female men are thick as thieves,
With croquet, ping-pong, and the rest,
Prophetic eyes discern the shame
Shall humble England in the dust;
And in their graves our sires shall flame
With scorn to know the Nation's game
Cat's-cradle; Cricket gone to rust,
My Lads