Poem by Norman Rowland Gale

Doctor Cricket

  Dear Tom, I do not like your look,
    Your brows are (see the poets) bent;
  You're biting hard on Tedium's hook,
    You're jaundiced, crumpled, footled, spent.
  What's worse, so mischievous your state
    You have no pluck to try and trick it.
  Here! Cram this cap upon your pate
    And come with me to Doctor Cricket!

  Don't eye decanters on the shelf.
    Your tongue's already thick with fur!
  Up, heart! and be your own dear self
    As when we chummed at Winchester.
  Destroy these pasteboard dancing girls;
    This theatre-bubble, come, Tom, prick it!
  Love more the off and leg-break curls
    Arranged for us by Doctor Cricket!

  You feel worn out at twenty-two?
    Your day's a thing of thirst and gloom?
  Old chap, of course I'll see you through,
    But--drop that rot about the tomb!
  Let's overhaul your bag. A pair
    Of noble bats to guard a wicket!
  Out, Friend, to breathe the sunny air,
    And wring the hand of Doctor Cricket!

  Be healed; and shun the flabby gang
    That tricked your taste with cards and drink,
  When out of independence sprang
    A silly downfall. Think, Tom, think!
  While stupid lads debase their worth
    In feather-headed Folly's thicket,
  Get back your muscle and your mirth
    Beneath the eye of Doctor Cricket!

1. Up at Lords
2. The Church Cricketant
3. On the Spot
4. A Boundary
5. Five Years After

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