Norman Rowland Gale (Норман Гейл)
The Two Kings
(Written for W.G. Grace's Fiftieth Anniversary.) When Arthur and his Table Round Thought lusty thumps the best of sport, Sir, And cups and cuffs, for all but muffs, Were just the code the nobles taught, Sir, Their jests were coarse, and swift their coursers, Their throats were hoarse and strong as hawsers; And they would shout a loud refrain The while they pricked across a plain, Observe this phrase just once again-- The while they pricked across a plain. Then 'twas the sport of Arthur's Court To hammer friendly helms with zeal, Sir, Lo, sounding clear for all to hear, The Tourney rang with lyres of steel, Sir! These demigods of matchless story For Love laid on, laid on for Glory! Their horses flew like thunderbolts, Or cut a brace of demi-voltes. Observe this phrase. The mettled colts Would cut a brace of demi-voltes. When Arthur and his Table Round Had lain in dust for many years, Sir, Came cricket bats and beaver hats, The stumps, the ball, the burst of cheers, Sir! Thus horse-play broke on Time's rough breakers And gentler games were hero-makers. Men ceased to crave for olden times, Whose daily deeds were modern crimes, But guarded stumps, and wrote their rhymes, And helped to keep the land from crimes. While Arthur and his Table Round In dreams were jousting once again, Sir, The wit of man conceived a plan To marry willow-wood and cane, Sir. Thereat the Stung became the Stinger; Thereat arrived the Century-Bringer! Mere muscle yielded to the wrist Poised lightly over clenching fist. Observe the phrase. I here insist Mere muscle yielded to the wrist. The knights of Arthur's Table True Wore helmets, gorgets, plumes, and greaves, Sir; While Tourneys stayed, big sport was played Without the joy of turned-up sleeves, Sir! But Cricket showed in armoured showing Without these noble players knowing, For when at Beauty's door they tapped They oft were at the wicket snapped. Be sure of this. With rage was mapped Each face when at the wicket snapped. Remembering the Table Round, Cricket at last begot a King, Sir. One day was born the Bowler's Thorn, The Bat of Bats for Rhyme to sing, Sir. As for the Lady Ball, he swept her From pole to pole with willow sceptre! Old Mother England was the place, The pitch the throne, the monarch Grace! Off with your hats! Your brims abase To greet his Royal Highness, Grace! Ah, for some kingly match in Town, To give the scene its fitting ode, Sir! Could Pindar fire the athletic lyre, A truant from his bright abode, Sir, How would he chant the Chief heroic, The trundler's hope become zeroic, The drives from liberal shoulders poured, The changing history of the Board! Long may the champion's pith be scored In figures leaping on the Board! Strong in the arms as Hercules, For club, a bat within his hand, Sir, Behold him there, the foe's despair, Persuade the bowling to the stand, Sir! What if some wrinkles now take leases Upon his brow? He's used to creases! And, young in muscle, still can laugh At fifty on Time's Telegraph. This Toast, good comrades, let us quaff-- Three figures on his Telegraph!
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