Except at lunch, I cannot say

With truth that we are stayers;

Yet, though on village greens we play,

We're far from common players.

The mason blocks with careful eye;

We dub him "Old Stonewall."

The blacksmith hammers hard and high,

And the spreading chestnuts fall.

Sheer terror strikes our enemies

When comes the postman's knock,

Whereas his slow deliveries

Would suit the veriest crock.

The butcher prides himself on chops;

His leg-cuts are a joke;

But when he lambs the slow long-hops

There's beef behind his stroke.

The grocer seldom cracks his egg:

He cannot catch; he butters.

The gardener mows each ball to leg,

And trundles daisy-cutters.

Our tailor's cut is world-renowned;

The coachman's drives are rare;

He'll either cart you from the ground

Or go home with a pair.

The village constable is stout,

Yet tries short runs to win;

They say he's run more people out

Than ever he ran in.

The curate (captain) every match

Bowls piffle doomed to slaughter,

But still is thought a splendid catch—

By the vicar's elderly daughter.

The watchmaker winds up the side,

But fails to time his pulls;

By now he must be well supplied

With pairs of spectacles.

Our umpire's fair; he says "Not Out,"

Or "Out," just as he thinks;

And gives the benefit of the doubt

To all who stand him drinks.

No beatings (beatings are the rule)

Can make our pride diminish;

Last week we downed the Blind Boys' School

After a glorious finish!