But then came the cheering,--
Nat Ricket appearing,
A smile on his face and a bat in his hand,
As he walked to the wicket,--
From hillside to thicket,
They couldn't cheer more for a lord of the land.
And when he began, 'twas a picture to see
How the first ball went flying right over a tree,
How the second went whizzing close up to the sky,
And the third ball went bang in the poor umpire's eye;
How he made poor point dance on his nimble young pins,
As a ball flew askance and came full on his shins;
How he kept the two scorers both working like niggers
At putting down runs and at adding up figures;
How he kept all the field in profuse perspiration
With rushing and racing and wild agitation,--
Why, Diana and Nimrod, or both rolled together,
Never hunted the stag as they hunted the leather.
It was something like cricket, there's no doubt of that,
When nimble Nat Ricket had hold of the bat.
You may go to the Oval, the Palace, or Lord's,
See the cricketing feats which each county affords,
But you'll see nothing there which, for vigour and life,
Will one moment compare with the passionate strife
With which Muddleby youngsters and Blunderby boys
Contend for the palm in this chief of their joys.
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