Poem by Norman Rowland Gale

Cricket and Cupid

  She understands the game no more
    Than savages the sun's eclipse;
  For all she knows the bowler throws,
    And Square-Leg stands among the Slips:
  And when in somersaults a stump
    Denotes a victim of the game,
  Her lovely throat begets a lump,
    Her cheeks with indignation flame.

  She scarce can keep her seat, and longs
    To cheer the fallen hero's fate;
  Her fingers clench upon the bench
    As if it were the Trundler's pate!
  Because this rascal's on the spot
    Her passion fails to be concealed;
  She asks me why the wretch is not
    Immediately turned off the field.

  But if the batsmen force the pace,
    From me she quickly takes her cue;
  Perceives the fun of stolen run,
    The overthrow that makes it two.
  And as the ball bombards the fence,
    Or rattles on the Scorers' hut,
  She claps with me the Drive immense,
    And prettily applauds the Cut.

  Divided at the heart, I seek
    With skill to serve a double call:
  Though great the Game, it were a shame
    To miss her bosom's rise-and-fall.
  Cupid and Cricket, unafraid,
    Must sink their dread of partnership,
  Nor fear to join as stock-in-trade
    The boxwood bail, the honeyed lip.

  Time was when bigotry compelled
    A total worship of the game,
  Before the test had pierced my breast,
    Before the Idol-breaker came.
  But suddenly the sky let down,
    Escaped from heaven in pink and gold,
  A child to conquer by her gown
    The sport so starkly loved of old.

  Sweet are her little cries, and sweet
    The puzzled look her forehead wears;
  For all she knows the Umpire goes
    Away to Leg to say his prayers.
  And yet, so velvety her eyes,
    I even find a charm in this,
  And think, How foolish to be wise
    When Ada's ignorance is bliss!

1. Dark Blue
2. Up at Lords
3. The Church Cricketant
4. On the Spot
5. A Boundary

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