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Reginald Denton.
THE LOST BALL.
Standing one day at the wicket
I was batting and ill at ease,
And one ball had hit my fingers,
Others had bruised my knees.
I had been most correctly playing,
But I became reckless then,
And I stepped out and slogged at |
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a short one,
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| And skied it beyond all the men. |
It crashed through an attic skylight,
And, amongst other trifling harm,
It knocked down a bottle of spirits
Which stood by a tippler's arm,
Who, leaning upon the table,
Was sitting abusing his wife
Amid inharmonious hiccoughs
Of daily discordant life.
It smashed that spirit bottle
Which before was one perfect piece
Into quite a hundred fragments,
And it made the tippling cease.
They have sought, but seek it vainly,
That one lost ball of mine,
For the tippler had rushed and sold it
For a glass of Juniper wine.
Crickety Cricket
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