In those days we heard little of Dumfries and Galloway cricket, into
which Steels, Tylecotes, and Studds have lately infused much life. In
recent years, Lord Dalkeith, Lord George Scott, and Mr. Maxwell Scott,
of Abbotsford, have contributed very much to the growth of Border
cricket. Money has never been very plentiful north of Tweed, and when
scarcely any but artisans played, the clubs could not afford good
grounds, or much professional instruction. In these respects there
has been improvement. Perhaps the boys’ cricket was not sufficiently
watched and encouraged. Veterans used to linger on the stage with a
mythical halo round them of their great deeds in the Sixties. Perhaps
the rising generation is now more quickly promoted, and better coached
than of old. I feel a hesitation in offering any criticism because I
had only one quality of a cricketer, enthusiasm, combined for a year
or two with some twist from leg. But, if I never was anything of an
expert, my heart hath always been with those old happy scenes and happy
days of struggling cricket. What jolly journeys we had, driving under
the triple crest of Eildon to Kelso, or down Tweed to Galashiels, or
over the windy moor to Hawick! How keen we were, and how carried beyond
ourselves with joy in the success of a sturdy slogger, or a brilliant
field! There were sudden and astonishing developments of genius. Does
J. J. A., among his savages on the other side of the globe, remember
how he once took to witching the world by making incredible and almost
impossible catches? _Audisne, Amphiarae?_ Michael Russell Wyer, I am
sure, among Parsee cricketers, has not forgotten his swashing blow. But
one of whom the poet declared that he would
Push into Indus, into Ganges’ flood,
While all Calcutta sings the praise of Budd,[34]
will no more ‘push leg balls among the slips.’
No longer make a wild and wondrous score,
And poke where never mortal poked before.
This is the melancholy of mortal things.
As Mr. Prowse sang
The game we have not strength to play
Seems somehow better than before.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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