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!