The day was wet, down poured the rain

In torrents from the sky;

Great coats, umbrellas, were in vain,

But every lip was dry.

The clouds seemed disinclined to part,

The wind was from the West,

Yet worked each brewer's manly heart

Like (y) east within his breast.

Along the road each brewer spent

His coin in frequent drains,

F or mere external moisture went

Against those brewers' grains.

And with a bright triumphant flush,

Their Captain, Mr. Staves,

Swore they should crush those sons of lush

Who dealt in "tidal-waves"

For, speaking of the L. V. A.,*

The brewers said, and laughed,

"A most efficient team were they

For purposes of draught."

'Twas thus they talked upon the way

Until they reached the ground;

But in their friends the L. V. A.,

Rum customers they found.

I havn't space to speak of all

The glories of the match—

Of every well-delivered ball,

And every well-caught catch.

I fain would tell of Mr. Keggs

(They spiled and bunged his eye)

Of Barley-corn, and how his legs

Got twisted all a rye;

How Stoups, the umpire, stood too near,

And came to grief and harm;

How, when he fell they gave him beer,

Which acted like a barm;

Of Hope, who keeps the Anchor bar

And vendeth flowing bowls

(My feet have often been that far

And anchored fast their soles)

Mark how he bustles, snorts, and spits—

His brow he mops and wipes,

And though I couldn't praise his hits,

I'll gladly praise his "swipes;"

Of Corks, who funked the second ball,

And by a sudden turn

Received the straightest one of all

Upon his ample stern.

He raised a loud and fearful roar—

With fury he was blind,

And, though they called it "leg-before"

He felt it most behind!

Of Marks, the scorer—best of men!

Sure everybody talks;

He chalked the runs correctly when

He couldn't walk his chalks.

Despite the flasks of monstrous size

He'd emptied to the dregs,

He scored "wides," "overthrows," "leg-byes,"

And runs attained by legs.

For all the ceaseless rain which flows,

The rival teams care naught;

Though runs were made by many a nose,

And many a cold was caught.

Inside and out they all got wet—

Each drank what he could hold;

I'm sure a bowl was overset

For every over bowled.

The daylight fails; at length 'tis gone:

There's little left to tell;

For as the shades of eve drew on

The stumps were drawn as well.

Then to the tent each man resorts:

On food intent were they.

Who won the sports? the pints and quarts—

The gallant L. V. A.

Beneath the canvas let us pass—

Old Bottle-brush was there,

And well he filled his empty glass,

And well he filled the "chair."

At length the Maltsters cleared the tent,

And several hops ensued;

But stay! Both time and space are spent—

In truth, I must conclude.

A vict'ler rose amid the host—

A burly man was he—

"My lads," he said, "I'll give a toast,

And here's my toast d'ye see:

"John Barley-corn, the king of seeds!"

And round the glasses go,

"For that's a corn that ne'er impedes

The light fantastic toe!"

IF any reader has conscientiously borne with me even unto the end, he may be ready to exclaim—"But where are the 'Southerly Busters?' No allusion to them except in the title and frontispiece. It's been a dead calm all the way."

Gentlest of a proverbially gentle class, what you say is perfectly true; but I have excellent precedent for this inconsistency. No one, not even an evangelical parson, sticks to his text now-a-days; and the gentleman who objected to being told "in mournful numbers" that "things are not what they seem," was a self-deceiving visionary who wanted to close his eyes to what everyone else knows to be an established fact. An M.P.'s speech on free trade seldom alludes to the subject; the daring feats and marvellous situations depicted outside a circus are never seen inside; light literature, advertised as such, is proverbially heavy; ————'s "Vermin Destroyer" has rather a nutritious and invigorating effect on vermin than otherwise, according to my experience; Young's "Night Thoughts" were written in broad day-light; and few can have failed to remark the absence of pork and the presence of cat in a restaurant pork-sausage.

The author of the most confused piece of literary mechanism that ever was printed, calls it "Bradshaw's Guide."

Original

Did it ever guide anyone anywhere except to outer darkness? Did it ever awaken any other feeling in the bosom of a deluded traveller than a thirst for revenge? Bradshaw merely followed the universal rule of contraries when he christened his mystifying treatise a "guide," for none knew better than he that "throwing a light on a subject" means involving it in gloom and obscurity, as surely as that "just one glass more, and then straight home," means twenty, and the most circuitous route the neighbourhood will admit of. I trust I have said enough to vindicate the somewhat obscure and deceptive title of this book; or, at any rate, to avert the worst catastrophe an author can dread—that of being blown to atoms by a Southerly Buster of Public Opinion.