Last week, when conning Cicero In New Big School, Smith called me, by a paraphrase, A senseless mule: I wasn't sharp enough just then To answer, Jack, That pots had oft been known to call The kettles black! And in the Close the other day He called me 'Muff!' I think I've borne his impudence Quite long enough! From length to length abusive men Can quickly pass, So I was hardly staggered when He called me 'Ass!' But in the nets on Friday eve I long did toil To make old Smith rub in at night St. Jacob's Oil! If on the Smithian shins remains An unbruised inch My name is not Bartholomew Ezekiel Finch! CHUCK HER UP The leader was mightily pleased when he saw That vanguard of his, with their trailing spears, Stand up from their stoop by a common law And welcome the sea with a round of cheers! No doubt that he laughed as he drank his fill Of the plundered wine in his golden cup; But he knew not joy as an English boy With his summer-time shout--'Chuck her up!' And doubtless Columbus by hope deferred, Wan, weary and worn, was down in the dumps Till they brought him news of a mainland bird, And fished up a couple of floating 'pumps.' However polished the Portuguese phrase That left his lips like a shot from a _Krupp_, Allowing for dates I find it translates By our cricketing shout--'Chuck her up!' How decent when free of each Latin rule To dash on your whites and rush to the field, To do or die for the sake of your school Where many have slogged and many appealed! You feel in your heart like such chaps as Grace, Or Surrey's old glory, the steadfast Jupp, When you yell 'How's that?' to the Umpire, Pratt, And the oracle says--'Chuck her up!' 'Twas a catch that dismissed the finest foe, And your Captain hastens to pat your back! So you modestly call it a fluke, and show The mark through the glove and the thumbnail's crack: But _Pater_, watching the match from the tent, Remembers your wish for a Bernard pup, And makes up his mind to be extra kind For the sake of the shout--'Chuck her up!' Thus, too, when our Lion is great again, And roars at the tramp of advancing foes, You may purchase praise by a twinge of pain In the midst of battle and giant blows! And next, when the English Flag's on the hill-- Though many are never again to sup-- For love of your land where the words were planned Cry out to your men--'Chuck her up!' TWO CRITICS When that I was a little lad I dearly loved Amelia James; She always seemed sunshiny glad, And took such notice of the games! Selina, who was Acton's pet, Distinctly looked prepared to scratch; She never stood behind the net, And never came to watch a match.