When red-nosed Winter takes the road, An icicle his walking-stick; When frost is on the woodman's load, And snow is falling fast and thick, Come, lusty youth and sapless eld, Let's make a circle round the blaze And talk of stumps, Of nasty bumps, That flew and came in sunny days. For Cricket is played again, again, At freezing time in Hull or Bath; When summer's done the game's not gone-- There's Cricket on the Hearth! Here's Jones from Rugby, Eton Jack, And Grandpapa who, long ago, Loved hitting when the Field was slack, And crumped the bowling, swift or slow! No more he's nimble on the green, But what a history he tells Of Surrey men, And hits for ten, And heaps of most tremendous Swells! For Cricket is played again, again, At freezing time in Hull or Bath; When summer's done the game's not gone-- There's Cricket on the Hearth! The girls may call to Hide-and-Seek, And lovely lasses take the floor; But we discuss the Lob and Sneak, The Canvas, Umpire, Over, Score! How great a game to fill July, May, June, and August with delights, Yet in the frost Be never lost, But stir the blood on nipping nights! For Cricket is played again, again, At freezing time in Hull or Bath; When Summer's done the game's not gone-- There's Cricket on the Hearth! DARK BLUE O Statesmen who devise and plot To keep the White above the Black, Who tremble when your bolt is shot Lest love and loyalty grow slack, There's not a deed of craftsmanship, There's not a thing Red Tape can do, Shall knit the Hindoo with the Celt As much as this--the Cambridge Blue! No million acres of Despatch, No tanks of governmental ink, Can force a native not to watch For days when England's star may sink. Build factories to weave the tape, Make tables for the rice and dew-- Do all your best, and you shall miss The binding force of Cambridge Blue! An Indian gentleman to-day Has staled your tortoise policy; And thousands cheer to see him play, A splendid batsman, quick and free. A game shall dwindle all your cares, A clever catch and runs a few! A Parliament may fail indeed, But not the band of Cambridge Blue! THE LAST BALL OF SUMMER 'Tis the last ball of Summer Left rolling alone; All his artful companions Are smitten and gone; No trace of his kindred, No shooter is seen To relate all the glories Of Briggs and Nepean. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To curl on the stumps; Since thy brothers were slogged so, Partake of their thumps! Thus kindly I smack thee Afar in the heavens, Where the mates of thy tribe went For sixes and sevens!