 | Messrs Bat and Ball |  |
9
BACK NUMBERS
1
He's grossly fat. He puffs and gruntsWhile walking slowly down the street,
Ballooned by tarts and beer and bread,
Potatoes and superfluous meat.
His chins are several. Near his eyes—
How dulled!—a fleshly rampart lies,
And round his neck he wears a ridge
Attractive to the midge.
But, bless my soul!
How well he used to bowl—
First medium-pace, then very slow—
For Mother England half a life ago!
2
Bath-chaired, he grumbles when the windIs warm, and when the wind is cold,
And sourly scans each yard of road
In search of brat or pup to scold.
It vexes him to watch me dare
The motors in the market-square,
Because he knows that he was none
When I was half-past one.
But, bless my heart!
How well he played his part
In shires that roared to see him flog
The ball as though a disobedient dog!
10
3
He's physic-mad. Beside his bedTwo dozen threatening bottles stand,
With embrocation for his ribs
And ointment for his swollen hand.
He's happy when he telephones
To call the doctor to his bones,
Or when the coldly artful nurse
Considers he is worse.
But, bless my soul!
What lightning he could bowl
When Bonnor did his best to shock
The constitution of the Oval clock!
4
A Blenheim Orange, kept too long,Grows shrivelled, as the skin has grown
Of him whose bent and withered form
Is loved wherever it is known.
This is the Star that used to blaze
At Cover-Point! Now length of days
Permits him but to toss a mild
Half-volley to a child.
But, bless my heart!
The quivering poise! the dart!
The wristy, magical, and stern
Completeness of that punishing Return!
| Messrs Bat and Ball | |