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Out of Sight

They held a polo meeting at a little country town,
And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown.
There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid
They both belonged to what is called "the take-you-down brigade".
They said their horse could jump like fun, and asked an amateur
To ride him in the steeplechase, and told him they were sure
The last time round he'd sail away with such a swallow's flight
The rest would never see him go -- he's finish out of sight.

So out he went; and, when folk saw the amateur was up,
Some local genius called the race "the Dude-in-Danger Cup".
The horse was known as "Who's Afraid", by "Panic" from "The Fright" --
But still his owners told the jock he's finish out of sight.

And so he did; for Who's Afraid, without the least pretence,
Disposed of him by rushing through the very second fence;
And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right --
For he was in the ambulance, and safely "out of sight".

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Wicket Cricket Critic

If the cricket critics' nagging
Merits stern official gagging
Which I doubt
How would critical ascetics,
With their prosy homiletics,
Shut it out?
And the question then arises:
If more cricketing surprises,
Such as bodyline, begin to threaten cricket,
And another stunt, when sprung,
Call for clicking of the tongue,
Should a cricket critic critically click it?

When the barrackers grow lyric
In a manner most satiric
And profane,
How, one ventures still to wonder,
May the clamor be kept under?
How restrain?
For one barbaric larrik-

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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We Mean to Say

We mean to say, it never has been granted
That anyone but England could decide,
In the crease or at the wicket,
Just exactly what was cricket
And, of course, I mean to say, we have our pride.
The great old game was, as it were, invented
On the playing fields of Eton, and all that,
And to try to steal our thunder
When you think we've made a blunder
Why, dear old bean, that's talking thro' the hat!

We mean to say - the game originated
With us, back in the dear old top-hat days,
And the gentlemen who played it,
By their sterling methods, made it
A top-hole game for sportsmen - hence the phrase.
So, hang it all! If something 'isn't cricket'
It's our prerogative to say so, flat.
And it's cheek, you know, cool cheek,
When you dash in, so to speak,

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Denny Long Of Annagloor

A two time All Star Gaelic Footballer about him he inspired many a song
The pride of Cork and Millstreet the marvellous Denny Long
Arguably Ireland's finest midfielder when he was in his prime
The memory of his greatness will not fade out in time.

His great positional sense and accurate kicking was a pleasure to behold
And the story of his rise to fame it often has been told
From Annagloor to Croke Park he made it all the way
The cheers rang out for Denny on All Ireland Football Final day.

A Gaelic Football legend of the seventies the years have left him slow
But he was quite a hero some three decades ago
So stylish and athletic Sportsmen like him are rare
And with the best in Ireland he surely do compare.

It was a privilege to have seen him play he was a credit to the game
All Irelands, All Stars and County Championship medals and one who knew great fame
His lengthy and accurate kicking his great useage of the football
A great player the Gaelic Football fans remember and recall.

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poem by Francis Duggan
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The Island Hunting-Song

No more the summer floweret charms,
The leaves will soon be sere,
And Autumn folds his jewelled arms
Around the dying year;
So, ere the waning seasons claim
Our leafless groves awhile,
With golden wine and glowing flame
We ’ll crown our lonely isle.

Once more the merry voices sound
Within the antlered hall,
And long and loud the baying hounds
Return the hunter’s call;
And through the woods, and o’er the hill,
And far along the bay,
The driver’s horn is sounding shrill,—­
Up, sportsmen, and away!

No bars of steel or walls of stone
Our little empire bound,

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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Sicker Soccer

The £10,000 a week defender can’t quite
catch the £20,000 striker who's got
the ball at his nimble, expensive feet, the stadium yelling
fit to raise the roof – what does he do? why,
he pulls the striker’s shirt, of course…; the ref, the commentators
remain silent. We, we were told off at nursery classes,
for pulling little Johnny’s shirt… I mean, for Pele’s sake,
what is this about? ! ..

then at the end of the game (one side’s got to win,
you’d think the fans are like they used to be,
paid good money to watch a good match)
the managers spit out their gum, pat each other on the back
whilst walking away, and not looking each other in the eye…
none of that love of the game stuff, the sparkling eyes
of those who love their sport, shaking hands
with a worthy opponent…ha…

and as for cricket – ‘sledging’ – can you believe it?
making sneery remarks to the batsmen while you stand in close…

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Piscator And Piscatrix

As on this pictured page I look,
This pretty tale of line and hook
As though it were a novel-book
Amuses and engages:
I know them both, the boy and girl;
She is the daughter of the Earl,
The lad (that has his hair in curl)
My lord the County's page as.

A pleasant place for such a pair!
The fields lie basking in the glare;
No breath of wind the heavy air
Of lazy summer quickens.
Hard by you see the castle tall;
The village nestles round the wall,
As round about the hen its small
Young progeny of chickens.

It is too hot to pace the keep;
To climb the turret is too steep;

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poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Autumn Days

In dreams of the night I hear the call
Of wild duck scudding across the lake,
In dreams I see the old convent wall,
Where Ottawa's waters surge and break.

But Hercule awakes me ere the sun
Has painted the eastern skies with gold.
Hercule! true knight of the rod and gun
As ever lived in the days of old.

'Arise! tho' the moon hangs high above,
The sun will soon usher in the day,
And the southerly wind that sportsmen love
is blowing across St. Louis Bay.'

The wind is moaning among the trees,
Along the shore where the shadows lie,
And faintly borne on the fresh'ning breeze
From yonder point comes the loon's wild cry.

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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Morning

O'ER fallow plains and fertile meads,
AURORA lifts the torch of day;
The shad'wy brow of Night recedes,
Cold dew-drops fall from every spray;
Now o'er the thistle's rugged head,
Thin veils of filmy vapour fly,
On ev'ry violet's perfum'd bed
The sparkling gems of Nature lie.

The hill's tall brow is crown'd with gold,
The Milk-maid trills her jocund lay,
The Shepherd-boy unpens his fold,
The Lambs along the meadows play;
The pilf'ring LARK, with speckled breast,
From the ripe sheaf's rich banquet flies;
And lifting high his plumy crest,
Soars the proud tenant of the skies.

The PEASANT steals with timid feet,
And gently taps the cottage door;

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poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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What The ****? !

All was quiet in the Garden of Eden
and not a fig-leaf stirred...

but after the Fall of Man
(usually forwards and enthusiastically, we note)
literature
required some word for what happens
when evening falls, the curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
lovers begin to nuzzle, friends
remember a prior engagement, journalists
try to bribe the night porter, and
some novelists, blushing, draw the curtain, while others
brighten and begin to enjoy their work; and filmmakers
need to decide between a darkling screen,
a symbolic firework display, or
box-office returns.

Egyptian hieroglyphics afford little clue (there's
a chance missed) : but jump-cutting now to Anglo-Saxon usage,
Chaucer, Father of the English Language so we're told,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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