THE OLYMPIANS.

Let those who will believe the Gods

On high Olympus do not travel

Along the lane that Progress plods,

The tricks of mortals to unravel:

Let them believe who will they shun

The average of C. B. Fry,

Or never from their lilied park

A little nearer Clifton run

To watch with joy the crimson lark

By Jessop bullied to the sky.

They love the Game. So warm they glow,

Not seldom rise imperial quarrels;

And not so many moons ago

Jove boxed with zeal Apollo's laurels.

The question ran, Was Arthur Mold

Unfairly stigmatised by muffs,

Or did he play a dubious prank?

Venus herself began to scold,

And Gods by dozens on a bank

Profanely took to fisticuffs!

When on the level mead of Hove

Elastic-sided Ranjitsinhji

With bowlers neatly juggles, Jove

Of clapping palms is never stingy.

Ambrosia stands neglected; wine

To crack the skull of Hector spills

While Lockwood cudgels brawn and brain;

And when the Prince leaves ninety-nine,

The cheers go valleywards like rain,

And hip-hurrah among the hills!

Prone on the lawn in merry mobs,

They note the polished art of Trumper,

The Surrey Lobster bowling lobs,

The anxious wriggles of the Stumper.

‘ Tis not ( believe me ) theirs to sneer

At what the modern mortal loves,

But theirs to copy noble sport;

And radiant hawkers every year

Do splendid trade in bats and gloves

With Jupiter and all his Court!