Our tailor's cut is world-renowned;
The coachman's drives are rare;
He'll either cart you from the ground
Or go home with a pair.
The village constable is stout,
Yet tries short runs to win:
They say he's run more people out
Than ever he ran in.
The curate (captain) every match
Bowls piffle doomed to slaughter,
But still is thought a splendid catch—
By the vicar's elderly daughter.
The watchmaker winds up the side,
But fails to time his pulls;
By now he must be well supplied
With pairs of spectacles.
Our umpire's fair; he says "Not Out,"
Or "Out," just as he thinks;
And gives the benefit of the doubt
To all who stand him drinks.
No beatings (beatings are the rule)
Can make our pride diminish;
Last week we downed the Blind Boys' School
After a glorious finish!
Cockney Motto for a Feeble Cricketer.—"Take 'Art of Grace!"
Good News after the Last Cricket Match.—Rest for the wicket.
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