Balls to the right of me! Balls to the left of me! Balls, too, in front of me! Nearly a hundred! There stood each cricket swell, Some of them batted well, Smacking the balls about; Seldom their wickets fell; I stood and wondered! III. Thirsty, with elbows bare, Bowlers were bowling there; Cricket-balls through the air Whizzed past their heads the while. Muchly I wondered Why no one's head was broke, For at each mighty stroke Close past the legs or head Of some unconscious bloke, Fast the balls thundered; Which, had they hit him, would Limbs have near sundered! IV. Balls to the right of me! Balls to the left of me! Balls, too, behind me! Bounded and thundered! Then came a sudden thwack, Right on my poor old back, Earthward I tumbled smack, Knocked out was all my breath With this untimely crack; Whether my bones were smashed, I lay and wondered. Ne'er will the memory fade Of the large bruise it made, Not if six hundred Years on this earth I stayed. Why cricket's ever played, Often I've wondered! From _Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874_. * * * * * The following is a fair specimen of the Puff Poetical, taken from the _Daily News_ of January, 1878:-- CHARGE OF THE FAIR BRIGADE. _With the Junior Partner's Apologies to Mr, Tennyson._ Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All on the underground line Rode the six hundred. Right! cried the guard of the train; Right! for the Sale, he said, Into the Terminus then Glide the six hundred. Forward the bright brigade! Was there a heart dismayed, Not tho' it seemed too true Someone had fainted. Their's not to call a fly, Aldgate, the station nigh; Their's but to try and buy, Into the premises Came the six hundred. Counters to right of them, Counters to left of them, Counters in front of them, Dighted and lumbered; Greeted with chair and grace Boldly they entered apace, Into the matter fain, Into the "Sale" amain Went the six hundred. Flash'd all their note-books fair, Flash'd all the pencils there, Noting with all due care. Purchases rich and rare, All the world wondered; Plunged in the "Hibernum Sale," Pleased with each neat detail; Silken and Linen Metre and yard-stick fail Almost to measure. Then they hark back, but not-- Not unencumbered. Counters to right of them, Counters to left of them, Counters behind them Piled up with wonders; Offered some bargains rare, Mute with a great despair They that had bought so well Came from the "Tempus" Sale Tired and deadly pale, Weary six hundred.