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Poem by Norman Rowland Gale
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!
Norman Rowland Gale
Norman Rowland Gale's other poems:
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