Quick are the strokes as lightning From Charley Pleycynge’s racket, And hot must be the game that makes De Vorley doff his jacket; And the two said, “We will play them A return-match, if they will. That they may regain on Sludgeboro’ plain What they lost on Dryburgh’s hill.” But the maidens fair of Dryburgh Must do without their beaux, While young Pleycynge and de Vorley Go forth to fight the foes; To fight them where in Sludgeboro’s lakes The pike at their quarry dash, And the silver moon on the deep lagoon Sees the wild fowl dive and splash. And now on the Sludgebro’ tennis-lawn Is met a surging crowd, And “play” is called by the umpire skill’d. In accents clear and loud: And forth steps the great Verandah With the warrior Biscoe bold, Whose doughty feats upon these sheets Could never enough be told. And the Dryburgh pair so dauntless Step forth on that humid lawn, From which the lake-weed and the sedge Have recently been shorn: With their Tate-made rackets in their hands And their dark blue flannel coats; And the referee and the umpire skill’d Lay to, hard by, in their boats. Then the great Sir V. O. Verandah Served his over-handed stroke, And the crowd was hushed in silence, And never a word was spoke: But it came back down the side-lines, And made the whitening fly, And the warrior barely saw it, As it swiftly whistled by. Then all gazed on young de Vorley, As he smashed with wondrous knack; And some in front cried “Volley,” And some said “play it back;” But the Marshers looked despondent, As the umpire called the score, While all this time the rain poured down As usual in Sludgeboro’ town. * * * * * At length a sound of triumph From the Dryburgh players rose, “Three sets to love, and Dryburgh wins Once more against her foes.” And many a muttered curse was heard From the Marshers in goloshes, And folks in boats were heard to swear, And the Sludgeboro’ people tore their hair, And their looks were those of grim despair, As they clutched their mackintoshes. But then a sullen murmur Through the angry Marshers ran, And the word was passed from mouth to mouth, Till it reached from rear to van: “Seize on those haughty Dryburghers, And duck them in our lake, And their jackets blue, and their rackets too, From those proud ones let us take.” * * * * * Then forthwith Charley Pleycynge raised Aloft his Tate-made racket; Sternly his partner buttoned up His dark blue Christ Church jacket; And the surging crowd pressed forward, And the shout of “Drown them!” rose, But the two stood calm and silent, And gazed upon their foes. * * * * *