There’s a loop of leather handle
    Peeping underneath the sofa! 
  Is tuition worth the candle
    When the conscience turns a loafer? 
  ’Tis the rich and backward Boarder
    Proves indeed the Tutor’s bane, Sir,
  When the turf’s in ripping order
    And the weather like champagne, Sir!

A WIGGING.

  “To throw your hands above your head
    And wring your mouth in piteous wise
  Is not a plan,” the Captain said,
    “With which I sympathise. 
  And with your eyes to ape a duck
    That’s dying in a thunderstorm,
  Because you deprecate your luck,
    Is not the best of form.

  “The fact is, Johnson, I am tired
    Of all this posing for a faint,
  Because you think the stump required
    Another coat of paint. 
  As greatly would you vex my soul,
    And drag decorum from the Game,
  If in the block your head you’d roll,
    Or stand upon the same.

  “This trick of striking attitudes,
    Inelegant for men to see,
  Will, to be candid, foster feuds
    Between yourself and me. 
  On manners of the best this sport,
    By right of glory, makes a call,
  And he who will not as he ought
    Should never play at all.

  “Now Luck is lean, now Luck Is fat,
    And wise men take her as she comes: 
  The Bowler may be sure the Bat
    Will share the sugarplums. 
  So never wriggle, nor protest,
    Nor eye the zenith in disgust,
  But, Johnson, bowl your level best,
    And recollect, what must be, must!”

THE TWO KINGS.

(Written for W.G.  Grace’s Fiftieth Anniversary.)

  When Arthur and his Table Round
  Thought lusty thumps the best of sport, Sir,
  And cups and cuffs, for all but muffs,
  Were just the code the nobles taught, Sir,
  Their jests were coarse, and swift their coursers,
  Their throats were hoarse and strong as hawsers;
  And they would shout a loud refrain
  The while they pricked across a plain,
  Observe this phrase just once again—­
  The while they pricked across a plain.

  Then ’twas the sport of Arthur’s Court
  To hammer friendly helms with zeal, Sir,
  Lo, sounding clear for all to hear,
  The Tourney rang with lyres of steel, Sir! 
  These demigods of matchless story
  For Love laid on, laid on for Glory! 
  Their horses flew like thunderbolts,
  Or cut a brace of demi-voltes. 
  Observe this phrase.  The mettled colts
  Would cut a brace of demi-voltes.

  When Arthur and his Table Round
  Had lain in dust for many years, Sir,
  Came cricket bats and beaver hats,
  The stumps, the ball, the burst of cheers, Sir! 
  Thus horse-play broke on Time’s rough breakers
  And gentler games were hero-makers. 
  Men ceased to crave for olden times,
  Whose daily deeds were modern crimes,
  But guarded stumps, and wrote their rhymes,
  And helped to keep the land from crimes.