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to thee, Cricket, Thy last match is o'er; Thy bat, ball, and wicket Are needed no more. To thy sister we turn, For her coming we pray: Her worshippers burn For the heat of the fray.

Hail! Goddess of battle, Yet hated of Ma(r)s, How ceaseless their tattle Of tumbles and scars! Such warnings are vain, For thy rites we prepare, Youth is yearning again In thy perils to share.

Broken limbs and black eyes May, perchance, be our lot; But grant goals and ties And we care not a jot. Too sacred to name With thy posts, ball, and field, There is no winter game To which thou canst yield.

—"More kicks than halfpence."