The burden of long fielding: when the clay Clings to thy shoon, in sudden shower’s down-pour, And running still thou stumblest; or the ray Of fervent suns doth bite and burn thee sore, And blind thee, till, forgetful of thy lore, Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a skyer, And lose a match the gods cannot restore―― This is the end of every man’s desire! The burden of loose bowling: when the stay Of all thy team is collared――swift or slower―― When bowlers break not in the wonted way And “yorkers” come not off as heretofore; When length-balls shoot no more, ah! never more, And all deliveries lose their wonted fire, When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door―― This is the end of every man’s desire! The burden of free hitting; slog away, Here shalt thou make a five, and there a four. And then thy heart unto thy heart shall say That thou art in for an exceeding score; Yea, the loud Ring, applauding thee shall roar. And thou to rival HORNBY shalt aspire, And lo! the Umpire gives thee “leg before.” This is the end of every man’s desire! ENVOY. Alas, yet rather on youth’s hither shore Would I be some poor player, on scant hire, Than King among the old, who play no more. _This_ is the end of every man’s desire. A. L. _St. James’s Gazette._ June 27, 1881. BALLADE OF CRICKET. (To T. W. Lang.) The burden of hard hitting: slog away! Here shalt thou make a “five” and there a “four,” And then upon thy bat shalt lean and say, That thou art in for an uncommon score. Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar, And thou to rival THORNTON shalt aspire, When low, the Umpire gives thee “leg before,”―― “This is the end of every man’s desire!” The burden of much bowling, when the stay Of all thy team is “collared,” swift or slower, When “bailers” break not in their wonted way, And “yorkers” come not off as heretofore. When length balls shoot no more, ah never more, When all deliveries lose their former fire, When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,―― “This is the end of every man’s desire!” The burden of long fielding, when the clay Clings to thy shoon in sudden showers downpour, And running still thou stumblest, or the ray Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore, And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore, Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a “skyer” And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,―― “This is the end of every man’s desire!” _Envoy._ Alas, yet liefer on youth’s hither shore Would I be some poor Player on scant hire Than king among the old who play no more,―― “_This_ is the end of every man’s desire!” ANDREW LANG.