STANZAS.
Others will sit and chatter o'er
The village fund of cricket lore—
Quote this rare "catch," and that bold "run,"
Till, having gossip'd down the sun,
They promise, with a loud "Good night!"
That if to-morrow's sky be bright,
They'll be again where they have been
For years—upon the "common green."
The village fund of cricket lore—
Quote this rare "catch," and that bold "run,"
Till, having gossip'd down the sun,
They promise, with a loud "Good night!"
That if to-morrow's sky be bright,
They'll be again where they have been
For years—upon the "common green."
The chicken tribe—the duckling brood,
Go there to scratch their daily food;
The woodman's colt—the widow's cows,
Unwatch'd—untether'd there may browse;
And, though the pasturage be scant,
It saves from keen and starving want.
Go there to scratch their daily food;
The woodman's colt—the widow's cows,
Unwatch'd—untether'd there may browse;
And, though the pasturage be scant,
It saves from keen and starving want.
"God speed the plough!" let fields be till'd,
Let ricks be heap'd and garners fill'd;
'Tis good to count the Autumn gold,
And try how much our barns can hold;
But every English heart will tell
It loves an "English common" well;
And curse the hard and griping hand.
That wrests away such "hallow'd" land;
That shuts the green waste, fresh and wild,
From poor man's beast and poor man's child!
Let ricks be heap'd and garners fill'd;
'Tis good to count the Autumn gold,
And try how much our barns can hold;
But every English heart will tell
It loves an "English common" well;
And curse the hard and griping hand.
That wrests away such "hallow'd" land;
That shuts the green waste, fresh and wild,
From poor man's beast and poor man's child!
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