THE LAST BALL OF SUMMER

‘ Tis the last ball of Summer

Left rolling alone;

All his artful companions

Are smitten and gone;

No trace of his kindred,

No shooter is seen

To relate all the glories

Of Briggs and Nepean.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To curl on the stumps;

Since thy brothers were slogged so,

Partake of their thumps!

Thus kindly I smack thee

Afar in the heavens,

Where the mates of thy tribe went

For sixes and sevens!

And soon may there follow,

Ere sinews decay,

A capital season

To get thee away!

For muscles must wither,

Our cricket be flown;

And we shall inhabit

Pavilions, and groan!