Norman Rowland Gale

The Appeal

  My boy, bethink you ere you fling
    Upon my heart a cloud of gloom.
  Pause, pause a moment ere you bring
    Your father to an early tomb
  By playing Golf! For if you seek
    To gravel your astounded sire,
  Desert the wicket for the cleek,
    Prefer the bagpipes to the lyre!

  My boy, along your veins is poured
    Heroic blood full fit to boast;
  For annals of the scoring-board
    Have made our name a cricket Toast.
  If now in pride or pique you choose
    To make this scandalous default,
  How many bygone Cricket Blues
    Will issue, raging, from their vault!

  My boy, the game that's big and bright,
    The game that stands all games above,
  And towers to such a glorious height,
    Deserves the summit of your love!
  Is this a time for dapper spats,
    When foes arrive to test our worth?
  Beg pardon of your gloves and bats,
    And play the kingliest game on earth!