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 And when the game's o'er, and our fate shall draw nigh (For the heroes of cricket, like others, must die), Our bats we'll resign, neither troubled nor vexed, And give up our wickets to those that come next. Derry down, &c.

The tenth knight of our round table (of which old Richard Nyren was the King Arthur) was a man we always called 'The Little Farmer'; his name was. He was a bowler—right-handed, and he had the most extraordinary delivery I ever saw. The ball was delivered quite low, and with a twist; not like that of the generality of right-handed bowlers, but just the reverse way: that is, if bowling to a right-handed hitter, nis ball would twist from the off stump into the leg. He was the first I remember who introduced this deceitful and teazing style of delivering the ball. When All England played the Hambledon Club, the Little Farmer was appointed one of our bowlers; and, egad! this new trick of his so bothered the Kent and Surrey men, that they tumbled out one after another, as if they had been picked off by a rifle corps. For a long time they could not tell what to make of that cursed twist of his. This, however, was the only virtue he possessed, as a cricketer. He was no batter, and had no judgement of the game. The perfection he had attained in this one department, and his otherwise general deficiency, are at once accounted for by the circumstance that, when he was tending his father's sheep, he would set up a hurdle or two, and bowl away for hours together. Our General, old Nyren, after a great deal of trouble (for the Farmer's comprehension did not equal the speed of lightning), got him to pitch the ball a little