To a Cricket Bat.

Old bat, you're done; nor oil nor binding now
Can make you fit to meet the shock of ball
Hurtling from bowler's hand—or ev'n the crawl
Of wily lobs; you've made your farewell bow
To the green field where gallant work enow
You did in days gone by; if total small
Often were mine, my mem'ry can recall
No cause to blame you, much to praise; for how
Your spring saved risky lifts! Farewell. But stay
Would you make one more venture at the game?
Come to the backyard, where the youngsters play,
And though we may not set the Thames aflame,
We'll let you die in harness—that's the way
First ball for six through the cucumber frame!
A. L. Rowe.