Farewell to thee, Cricket,

Thy last match is o'er;

Thy bat, ball, and wicket

Are needed no more.

To thy sister we turn,

For her coming we pray;

Her worshippers burn

For the heat of the fray.

Hail! Goddess of battle,

Yet hated of Ma(r)s,

How ceaseless their tattle

Of tumbles and scars!

Such warnings are vain,

For thy rites we prepare,

Youth is yearning again

In thy perils to share.

Broken limbs and black eyes

May, perchance, be our lot;

But grant goals and ties

And we care not a jot.

Too sacred to name

With thy posts, ball, and field,

There is no winter game

To which thou canst yield.