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'Tis rapture to take a man's wicket,

Or lash round to leg for a four; But somehow the glories of cricket

Depend on the state of the score.

But in boating, or losing or winning,

Though victory may not attend;
Oh, 'tis jolly to catch the beginning,

And pull it clean through to the end.

III.

'Tis brave over hill and dale sweeping,

To be in at the death of the fox;
Or to whip, where the salmon are leaping,

The river that roars o'er the rocks ;
'Tis prime to bring down the cock pheasant;

And yachting is certainly great ;
But, beyond all expression, 'tis pleasant

To row in a rattling good eight.

Then, hurrah, boys, or losing or winning,

What matter what labour we spend ?
Hard on to it, catch the beginning,

And pull it clean through to the end.

IV.

Shove her off! Half a stroke! Now, get ready!

Five seconds ! Four, three, two, one, gun! Well started ! Well rowed ! Keep her steady!

You'll want all your wind e'er you've done. Now you're straight! Let the pace become swifter !

Roll the wash to the left and the right !

Pick it up all together, and lift her,

As though she would bound out of sight !

Hurrah, Hall! Hall, now you're winning,
Feel

your stretchers and make the blades

bend;
Hard on to it, catch the beginning,

And pull it clean through to the end.

V.

Bump ! Bump! O ye gods, how I pity

The ears those sweet sounds never heard ; More tuneful than loveliest ditty

E’er poured from the throat of a bird.
There's a prize for each honest endeavour,

But none for the man who's a shirk;
And the pluck that we've showed on the river,

Shall tell in the rest of our work.

At the last, whether losing or winning,

This thought with all memories blend, We forgot not to catch the beginning,

And we pulled it clean through to the end.

LETTER FROM THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE

COUNTRY MOUSE.

I.

Oh for a field, my friend ; oh for a field !

I ask no more

Than one plain field, shut in by hedgerows four, Contentment sweet to yield. For I am not fastidious,

And, with a proud demeanour, I
Will not affect invidious

Distinctions about scenery.
I sigh not for the fir trees where they rise
Against Italian skies,

Swiss lakes, or Scottish heather,
Set off with glorious weather ;

Such sights as these

The most exacting please;
But I, lone wanderer in London streets,
Where every face one meets

Is full of care,
And seems to wear
A troubled air,

Of being late for some affair
Of life or death :thus I, ev'n I,
Long for a field of grass, flat, square, and green
Thick hedges set between,

Without or house or bield,

A sense of quietude to yield;
And heave my longing sigh,
Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field !

II.

For here the loud streets roar themselves to rest

With hoarseness every night;

And greet returning light With noise and roar, renewed with greater zest.

Where'er I go,

Full well I know
The eternal grinding wheels will never cease.
There is no place of peace !

Rumbling, roaring, and rushing,

Hurrying, crowding, and crushing, Noise and confusion, and worry, and fret, From early morning to late sunsetAh me! but when shall I respite getWhat cave can hide me, or what covert shield ?

So still I sigh,

And raise my cry,
Oh for a field, my friend ; oh for a field !

III.

Oh for a field, where all concealed,

From this life's fret and noise,
I sip delights from rural sights,

And simple rustic joys.
Where, stretching forth my limbs at rest,

I lie and think what likes me best;
Or stroll about where'er I list,

Nor fear to be run over
By sheep, contented to exist

Only on grass and clover.

In town, as through the throng I steer,

Confiding in the Muses,
My finest thoughts are drowned in fear

Of cabs and omnibuses.
I dream I'm on Parnassus hill,

With laurels whispering o'er me,
When suddenly I feel a chill-

What was it passed before me? A lady bowed her gracious head

From yonder natty broughamThe windows were as dull as lead,

I didn't know her through them. She'll

say I saw her, cut her dead, -
I've lost my opportunity ;
I take my hat off when she's fled,

And bow to the community !
Or sometimes comes a hansom cab,

Just as I near the crossing;
The “cabby" gives his reins a grab,

The steed is wildly tossing.
Me, haply fleeing from his horse,
He greets with language somewhat coarse,

To which there's no replying ;
A brewer's dray comes down that way,

And simply sends me flying !
I try the quiet streets, but there
I find an all-pervading air
Of death in life, which my despair

In no degree diminishes.
Then homewards wend my weary way,
And read dry law books as I may,
No solace will they yield.

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