Poem by Norman Rowland Gale

A Wigging

  "To throw your hands above your head
    And wring your mouth in piteous wise
  Is not a plan," the Captain said,
    "With which I sympathise.
  And with your eyes to ape a duck
    That's dying in a thunderstorm,
  Because you deprecate your luck,
    Is not the best of form.

  "The fact is, Johnson, I am tired
    Of all this posing for a faint,
  Because you think the stump required
    Another coat of paint.
  As greatly would you vex my soul,
    And drag decorum from the Game,
  If in the block your head you'd roll,
    Or stand upon the same.

  "This trick of striking attitudes,
    Inelegant for men to see,
  Will, to be candid, foster feuds
    Between yourself and me.
  On manners of the best this sport,
    By right of glory, makes a call,
  And he who will not as he ought
    Should never play at all.

  "Now Luck is lean, now Luck Is fat,
    And wise men take her as she comes:
  The Bowler may be sure the Bat
    Will share the sugarplums.
  So never wriggle, nor protest,
    Nor eye the zenith in disgust,
  But, Johnson, bowl your level best,
    And recollect, what must be, must!"

1. Buttered
2. Dark Blue
3. Out
4. Star-Gazing
5. A Boundary

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