  After A. T. So for the last great Hockey of the Hills, —Damsel v. Dame—by ruder cynics called The Tournament of the Dead Dignities, We gained the lists, and I, thro' humorous lens, Perused the revels. Here on autumn grass Leapt the lithe-elbowed Spin, and strongly merged In scrimmage with the comfortable Wife And temporary Widow,—know you not, Such trifles are the merest commonplace In loftier contours?—Twenty-two in all They numbered, and none other trod the field Save one, the bold Sir Referee, whose charge It was to keep fair order in the lists, And peace 'twixt Dame and Damsel: married, he. O brothers, had ye seen them! O the games! Fleet-footed some: lightly they leapt, and drave Or missed the pellet; then, perchance, would turn With hand that sought their tresses. Others moved Careless, in half disdain, nor urged pursuit; Yet ever and anon would shriek, and miss The pellet, while the bold Sir Referee Skipt in avoidance. From the factions came The cry of voices shrilling woman-wise, The clash of stick on stick, the muffled shin, The sudden whistle, and the murmurous note Of mutual disaffection. Otherwhere The myriad coolie chortled, knightly palms Clapped, and the whole vale echoed to the noise Of ladies, who in session to the West Sat with the light behind them, self-approved. Fortune with equal favour poised the scale, And loudlier rang the trouble, till I heard 'A Susan! Ho! A Susan!'—She, oh she, Of hot girl-athletes with their tousled hair, Was on the ball. Deftly she smote, and drave On, and so paddled swiftly in its wake. The good ash gleamed and fell; the forward ranks Gave passage; once again she smote, again Paddled, nor passed, but paddling ever neared The mournful guardian of the Sacred Goal, Hewing and hacking. Little need to tell Of Susan in her glory; whom she smote She felled, and whom she shocked she overthrew; And, shrieking, passed exultant to her doom. For Susan, while she clove a devious course, Moved crab-like, in a strange diagonal, And, driving, crossed the frontiers. Thither came The bold Sir Referee, and shrilled abroad The tremulous, momentary 'touch.' But she, Heaving with unaccustomed exercise, Blinded and baffled, wild with all despair, Stood sweeping, as a churl that sweeps the scythe The desperate whistle. Once again, and he, Skipping, diffused the whistle. But at last, So shrewd a blow she dealt him on the shin, That had he stood reverse-wise on his head, Not on his feet, I know not what had chanced. Then to the shuddering Orient skies there rose A marvellous great shriek, the splintering noise Of shattered ash-plant and of battered shank, Mixed with a higher. For Susan, overwrought, Lost footing, and with one clear dolorous wail Fell headlong, only more so. And I saw, Clothed in black stockings, mystic, wonderful, That which I saw. The coolies yelled. The crowd Closed round, and so the tourney reached an end. Then home they bore the bold Sir Referee In Susan's litter; and they tended him With curious tendance; and they drowned his views On Susan, and the tourney, and the place Whither he'd see them ere again he ruled It sweet that should not!). This is how it ran:— |
|
