WET-WILLOW
A Song of a Sloppy Season.
(By a Washed-out Willow-Wielder.)
Air―Titwillow.
In the dull, damp pavilion a popular “Bat”
Sang “Willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!”
And I said “Oh! great slogger, pray what are you at,
Singing ‘Willow, wet-willow, wet-willow’?
Is it lowness of average, batsman,” I cried;
“Or a bad ‘brace of ducks’ that has lowered your pride?
With a low-muttered swear-word or two he replied,
“Oh willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!”
He said “In the mud one can't score, anyhow,
Singing willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!
The people are raising a deuce of a row,
Oh willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!
I've been waiting all day in these flannels―they're damp!―
The spectators impatiently shout, shriek, and stamp,
But a batsman, you see, cannot play with a Gamp,
Oh willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!
“Now I feel just as sure as I am that my name
Isn't willow, wet-willow, wet-willow,
The people will swear that I don't play the game,
Oh willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!
My spirits are low and my scores are not high,
But day after day, we've soaked turf and grey sky,
And I sha'n't have a chance till the wickets get dry,
Oh willow, wet-willow, wet-willow!!!”
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