The Useful Cricketer

(A Candid Veteran’s Confession.)

I am rather a “pootlesome” bat—
I seldom, indeed, make a run;
But I’m rather the gainer by that,
For it’s bad to work hard in the sun.

As a “field” I am not worth a jot,
And no one expects me to be;
My run is an adipose trot,
My “chances” I never can see.

I am never invited to bowl,
And though, p’r’aps, this seems like a slight,
In the depths of my innermost soul
I’ve a notion the Captain is right.

In short, I may freely admit
I am not what you’d call a great catch
But yet my initials are writ
In the book against every match!

For although—ay, and there is the rub—
I am forty and running to fat,
I have made it all right with the Club,
By presenting an Average Bat!

Another Title!! Supplemental Gazette of Birthday Honours.—Dr. W. G. Grace to be Cricket-Field-Marshal.

Muscular High Church Curate. “Wonderful things ‘Grace’ does!”

Low Church Vicar (surprised at the serious observation from his volatile friend). “Ah, my dear sir, true—-”

High Church Curate. “Yes. Only fancy, y’know!—ninety-two, and not out!!”