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Ofen of you make on some oldt gal's scheek,
Oh ! dot shnow, dot goot-lookin shnow,
Lafein, runnin, mit gwickness go py.
Yoost shtobbin a leedle, den pooty gwick shly ; Und efen der togs, dot vas out in der vet, Vood shnab at der bieces vhich makes on dhere hedt. Der peobles vas grazy, und caddles vood crow Und say how you vas, you goot-lookin shnow.
Gilbert Grace has gone home to dear Downend,
Bob Abel is bound for the Cape. For want of a fuller enjoyment,
Till Bat, Ball, and Stumps, can come out, At Football a few find employment,
But Cricket is done, beyond doubt. Good-bye to the Season !—The weather
Has bowed at the shrine of St. Gamp; Wet wickets have sodden the leather,
And stumps have been pitched in a swamp. Chill deluges, varied with thunders,
The Cricket-crack's “average queer. Bad hits and bad misses are blunders
Scarce blamed in so beastly a year.
All round for the prevalent “ duck ;'
Its memories are mainly of muck.
Und so gwick you vas dhere, und der vedder did shnow,
Schwimmen, shkimmen, fhlirdin dhey go
Rect on der tob of dot goot-lookin shnow. Dot shnow vas vhite glean vhen it comes der shky down, Und yoost so muddy like mud, ven it comes of der town; To been valked on py more as dwo hoondret fife feet, Dill gwick, vas yoost lookin so phlack like der shtreet.
This imitation will be found complete in Routledge's Medley Dialect Recitations.
Good-bye to the Season !—The chances
That filled even champions with gloom ; The rascally tricks and rare dances
Devised by the demon of doom. The “bad hits” that should have been “beauties,"
The good ones so palpably “Aukes" ;
The Captains so tart in rebukes ;
On matches like Surrey v. Notts ;
The subsequent downfall of “pots.' Good-bye to the Season !- Another
Will come with the coming of May; Though the new county boundaries bother,
The cry of the boys will be “Play !" Will it come like this terrible "tryer ?”
Or come very much the reverse? Will its scorings be lower or higher ?
Will its weather be better or worse? Will it favour the bowler or batter?
Will it come with dry turf and clear sky, Or washy and squashy ?—No matter :
Good-bye to the Season-good-bye !
GOOD-BYE TO THE (CRICKETING) SEASON, ( A Fond Farewell, something in the style of Praed, composed at the Oval in October by our Own Old Enthusiast.)
GOOD-BYE to the Season !- 'Tis over!
Pavilions no longer are gay ;
Are scattered like M.P.'s away.
At point, watching Bannerman's " shape;"