XVII

Twice a week the winter thorough

Here stood I to keep the goal:

Football then was fighting sorrow

For the young man's soul.

Now in May time to the wicket

Out I march with bat and pad:

See the son of grief at cricket

Trying to be glad.

Try I will; no harm in trying:

Wonder‘ tis how little mirth

Keeps the bones of man from lying

On the bed of earth.