O Bowler, Bowler, when the day is hot,
Nor any more a wicket you can get;
When Curl and Length and Pace are Gone to Pot
Before the blade of him serenely set,
IS life worth living--life which only means
Your ev'ry ball receives stupendous Beans,
And that dread Bat a mighty harvest gleans
While your Analysis sinks deep in debt?
He cuts the leather hard and square,
Nor recks he if it shoots or kicks;
He sends you clean beyond the screen,
And lifts you o'er the Baths for six?
O Bowler, Bowler, when the Swells all frown
And say your non-success is due to Stodge;
When you in vain invoke the House of Brown
For help the brilliant Batsman to dislodge,
IS life worth living--life which only sends
Reproachful glances from despondent friends,
A varied action and a change of ends,
The subtle slow, the Daisy-cutter's dodge?
The Batsman smacks you to the Courts,
And drives you mad with cunning snicks;
He wipes you clean beyond the screen,
And crumps you o'er the Baths for six!
O Bowler, Bowler, when the Captain calls
'Let Longcroft try,' and places you at Point;
When Cover whispers 'Brown, look out for squalls!'
And, with a vengeance, times are out of joint,
IS life worth living--life which only brings
Mis-fielding pains and most erratic flings,
Which aid the Batsman's rapid regist'rings,
But leave you praiseless, slanged and unanoint?
The Batsman cuts the ball for five,
Employing judgment, nerve, and tricks;
He smites you clean beyond the screen,
And carts you o'er the Baths for six!
