Poem by Norman Rowland Gale

Out

    O very potent little word,
            'Out!'
    How often have we sadly heard
            'Out!'
    When stupid umpires surely sin,
    Just as to settle we begin,
    And say, in place of saying 'in,'
            'Out!'

    Though I am Captain of the team,
            'Out!'
    Though I in doubt may gravely seem,
            'Out!'
    Though I have barely scored a run
    My average goes down with one,
    And other Bats must have the fun--
            'Out!'

    I see Jones laugh behind his hand--
            Out!
    Next match, by Jove, the brute shall stand
            Out!
    Our cousin, Lydia Lake, is here,
    And in her eyes I would appear
    A Swell; _hinc illae_--Jones's sneer--
            Out!

    Ah! lucky Jones begins to hit
            Out!
    Another four! I wish he'd get
            Out!
    I see him look where Lydia sits
    To note if she applauds his hits--
    She does! She'll burst her gloves to bits!--
            Out!

    Yet why should I be Jones's butt,
            Out?
    I have a plan that chap to cut
            Out!
    What boots it thus to mope, my soul?
    I go to sit by Lydia. Scowl,
    O Jones, for you, methinks, I bowl
            Out!

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

Print

1224 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version