SURRY TRIUMPHANT,

Or the Kentish Men's Defeat.

God prosper long our harvest-work,
Our rakes and hay-carts all!
An ill-tim'd cricket match there did
At Bishopsbourn befal.

To bat and bowl with might and main

Two nobles took their

way;

The hay may rue, that is unhous❜d,
The batting of that day.

The active Earl of Tankerville
An even bet did make,

That in Bourn paddock he would cause
Kent's chiefest hands to quake,

To see the Surry cricketers

Out-bat them and out-bowl.

To Dorset's Duke the tidings came,
All in the park of Knowle;

Who sent his Lordship present word,
He would prevent his sport.
The Surry Earl, not fearing this,

Did to East Kent resort.

With ten more masters of the bat,

All chosen men of might,

Who knew full well, in time of need,

To aim or block aright.

* All the words in Italics are taken from the old Ballad of Chevy Chace.

From Marsh and Weald, their hay-forks left,

To Bourn the rustics hied,

From Romney, Cranbrook, Tenterden,

And Darent's verdant side;

Gentle and simple, 'squires and clerks,

With many a lady fair;

Fam'd Thanet, * Fowell's † beauteous bride,
And graceful Sondes * were there.

The Surry sportsmen chose the ground;
The ball did swiftly fly:

On Monday they began to play,.
Before the grass was dry;

And long ere supper-time they did
Near fourscore notches gain;
Then having slept, they, in their turn,
Stopp'd, caught, and bowl'd amain.

The fieldmen, station'd on the lawn,
Well able to endure,

Their loins with snow-white sattin vests
That day had guarded sure.

Full fast the Kentish wickets fell,

While Higham house and mill,

And Barham's upland down, with shouts
Did make an echo skrill.

Sir Horace from the dinner went,

To view the tender ground;
Quoth he, "this last untoward show'r

Our stumps has almost drown'd:

**Two Peeresses of East Kent.

+ Dr. John Fowell, Rector of Bishopsbourn and Barham.

If that I thought, 'twould not be dry,
No longer would I play."

With that, a shrewd young gentleman
Thus to the Knight did say:

"Lo! yonder doth the sun appear,
And soon will shine forth bright,
The level lawn and slipp'ry ground
· All drying in our sight;

"Not bating ev'n the river banks
Fast by yon pleasant mead."
"Then cease disputing," Lumpey said,
“And take your bats with speed:

"And now with me, my countrymen,
Let all your skill be shown,
For never was there bowler yet,
In Kent or Surry known,

“That ever did a bale dislodge,
Since first I play'd a match,
But I durst wager, hand for hand,
With him to bowl or catch."

Young Dorset, like a Baron bold,

His jetty hair undrest,

Ran foremost of the company,

Clad in a milk-white vest;

"Shew me," he said, "one spot that's dry, Where we can safely run;

Or else, with my consent, we'll wait

To-morrow's rising sun."

The man that first did answer make,
Was noble Tankerville;

Who said, "to play, I do declare,

There only wants the will;

"Move but the stumps, a spot I'll find

As dry as Farley's * board."

"Our records," quoth the Knight, "for this No precedent afford.

"Ere thus I will out-braved be,

All hazards I'll defy :

I know thee well, an Earl thou art;
And so not yet am I,

"But trust me, Charles, it pity were,

And great offence to kill

With cold or sprains, these harmless men,
For they have done no ill.

"Let us at single wicket play,
And set our men aside.”
"Run out be he," reply'd the Earl,
By whom this is deny'd !"

Then stepp'd a gallant 'squire forth,
Bartholomew was his name,
Who said, "I would not have it told
On Clandon down for shame,

"That Tankerville e'er play'd alone,

And I stood looking on :
You are a Knight, Sir, you an Earl,

And I a Vicar's son:

*The master of the ordinary.

"I'll do the best that do I may,
While I have pow'r to stand;
While I have pow'r to wield my bat,
I'll play with heart and hand.”

The Surry bowlers bent their backs,
Their aims were good and true,
And every ball that 'scap'd the bat,
A wicket overthrew.

To drive the ball beyond the booths,
Duke Dorset had the bent;

Woods, mor'd at length with mickle pride,
The stumps to shivers sent.

They ran full fast on ev'ry side,
No slackness there was found :~
And many a ball that mounted high,
Ne'er lighted on the ground.

In truth, it was a grief to see,
And likewise for to hear,

The cries of odds that offer'd were,
And slighted every where.

At last, Sir Horace took the field,
A batter of great might ;
Mov'd like a lion, he awhile
Put Surry in a fright:

He swung, 'till both his arms did ach,

His bat of season'd wood,

'Till down his azure sleeves the sweat,
Ran trickling like a flood.