"NEVER TRUST A CRICKETER"

Come all ye fair young maidens and harken unto me,
Never trust a cricketer, whoever he may be.

Randier than a sailor who's been six months at sea,
Never let a cricketer's hand an inch above your knee.

First let's take the paceman, pure speed from first to last!
My darlings do be careful; his balls are hard and fast.

Then there's the medium pacer, his balls swing either way;
He's really most persistent and can keep it up all day!

And watch for the off-spinner, girls, another awkward chap.
If you leave him half an opening, he will slip one through the gap!

Then there's the wily 'slowy', pure cunning is his strength;
He'll tempt you, then he'll trap you with his very subtle length.

So ladies, do be careful, your mothers would agree.
Never trust a cricketer, whoever he may be.

And what about the opening bat, his struggles never cease!
He has only one ambition, to spend all day at the crease.

The number three is a dasher, he seldom prods and pokes.
When he goes into action, he has a fine array of strokes..

And do beware the slogger, not content with one or two;
When he arrives at the crease then only six will do.

Then there's the real stonewaller, girls, he knows what he's about;
And if you let him settle in, it's hard to get him out!

We come now to the last man, I hope this will not shock,
He doesn't mind if he's last man in, as long as he gets a knock.

So, darlings, do be careful, and be well warned by me:
Never trust a cricketer, whoever he may be.

And watch the wicketkeeper, girls, he's full of flair and dash;
And if you raise your heel, he'll whip them off in a flash.

If you take the field with the captain, you had better know the score;
Or he'll have you in positions that you never knew before!

The cricket commentator is a nasty sort of bloke,
He watches all the action and describes it stroke by stroke.

Even the kindly umpire, who looks friendly as a pup;
You'll quickly find you've had it, when he puts his finger up!

So, darlings, please remember and repeat it after me:
!!!!NEVER TRUST A CRICKETER, WHOEVER HE MAY BE!!!!!

That was funny despite my ignorance of the game.

Esskay,

I betcha the large majority of the good readers of the AR forum have no idea what you are talking about. For those and for Brice above, here is a short description of the game:

"You have two sides, one out in the field and one in.
Each man that's in the side that's in goes out, and when
he's out he comes in and the next man goes in until he's
out. When they are all out, the side that's out comes in
and the side that's been in goes out and tries to get
those coming in, out. Sometimes you get men still in
and not out. When a man goes out to go in, the men who
are out try to get him out, and when he is out he goes
in and the next man in goes out and goes in. There are two
men called umpires who stay out all the time and they
decide when the men who are in are out. When both sides
have been in and all the men have been given out, and
both sides have been out twice after all the men have
been in, including those who are not out, that is the
end of the game!"

I am not sure who the author was, but I think it was Churchill or someone like that.

Hmmm… do I discern some confusion among the ranks?

Jas

Limey version of, Casey at the Bat?


Casey at the Bat
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that--
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville--great Casey has struck out.

Ernest Lawrence Tha