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Ofen of you make on some oldt gal's scheek,
It makes notting tifferent, ofer das shendlesom freak.
Goot-lookin shnow, von der glouds py der shky,
You vas bully mit cold vedder, und bully von high.

Gilbert Grace has gone home to dear Downend,

Bob Abel is bound for the Cape. For want of a fuller enjoyment,

Till Bat, Ball, and Stumps, can come out, At Football a few find employment,

But Cricket is done, beyond doubt.

Oh ! dot shnow, dot goot-lookin shnow,
Yoost dis vay, und vot you make vhen you go;
Fhlyin aroundt, you got matness mit fun,
Und fhreeze makes der nose of efery von ;

Lafein, runnin, mit gwickness go py.

Yoost shtobbin a leedle, den pooty gwick fhly ; Und efen der togs, dot vas out in der vet, Vood shnab at der bieces vhich makes on dhere hedt. Der peobles vas grazy, und caddles vood crow Und say how you vas, you goot-lookin shnow.

Good-bye to the Season !—The weather

Has bowed at the shrine of St. Gamp; Wet wickets have sodden the leather,

And stumps have been pitched in a swamp. Chill deluges, varied with thunders,

The Cricket-crack's “average" queer. Bad hits and bad misses are blunders

Scarce blamed in so beastly a year. There are all sorts of excellent reasons

All round for the prevalent “ duck ;" So, Good-bye to this wettest of Seasons !

Its memories are mainly of muck.

Und so gwick you vas dhere, und der vedder did shnow,
Dhey shpeak out in dones so shweeder as low,
Und der shleigh-riders, too, vas gone py in der lite,
You doond cood saw dhem, dill quite out of site.

Schwimmen, shkimmen, fhlirdin dhey go

Rect on der tob of dot goot-lookin shnow. Dot shnow vas vhite glean vhen it comes der shky down, Und yoost so muddy like mud, ven it comes of der town; To been valked on py more as dwo hoondret fife feet, Dill gwick, vas yoost lookin so phlack like der shtreet.

Good-bye to the Season !—The chances

That filled even champions with gloom ; The rascally tricks and rare dances

Devised by the demon of doom. The “bad hits” that should have been “beauties,"

The good ones so palpably “flukes" ;
The fielders so slack in their duties,

The Captains so tart in rebukes ;
The cocksures who dropped bobs and tanners

On matches like Surrey v. Notts ;
The consequent breaches of manners

The subsequent downfall of “pots.'

This imitation will be found complete in Routledge's Medley Dialect Recitations.


GOOD-BYE TO THE (CRICKETING) SEASON, (A Fond Farewell, something in the style of Praed, composed at the Oval in October by our Own Old Enthusiast.)

GOOD-BYE to the Season !- 'Tis over!

Pavilions no longer are gay ;
Bat, bowler, and leal Cricket-lover,,

Are scattered like M.P.'s away.
Walter Read bobs no longer his brown end

At point, watching Bannerman's "shape ;"

Good-bye to the Season !- Another

Will come with the coming of May; Though the new county boundaries bother,

The cry of the boys will be “Play !" Will it come like this terrible “ tryer ?".

Or come very much the reverse? Will its scorings be lower or higher ?

Will its weather be better or worse? Will it favour the bowler or batter?

Will it come with dry turf and clear sky, Or washy and squashy ?-No matter :

Good-bye to the Season-good-bye !

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