THE COMMENTATOR.

The throstle in the lilac,

Not far beyond the Nets,

Upon a spray of purple

His beak severely whets:

He hears the players calling,

He wonders what they're at,

As thunder frequent Yorkers

Against the stubborn bat.

And as the rank half-volley

Its due quietus gets,

The bird begins to carol

A greeting to the Nets:

Amazed at noisy kissing

Of ball and wooden blade,

In rivalry he whistles

A ballad unafraid.

Right jocund is the music

That, poured in lovely jets,

Accompanies superbly

The heroes in the Nets;

And sweet the startled pauses

Amid the royal song

That come when shout together

The drive-delighted throng.

The greatness of the uproar

Benumbs him, and he lets

His pulsing bosom ponder

The tumult in the Nets;

But soon afresh, while warbling

His comment on the game,

He puts all human songsters —

Quite easily!— to shame.

Thou Herrick in the lilac,

The damp of evening wets

Upon our shoes the pipeclay,

And bids us leave the Nets;

But come again to-morrow

To mingle with our joy

The magic learnt in Eden

When Time was but a boy!