[By scoring 288 in the match Gloucester _v._ Somerset at
Bristol, on May 17, Mr. W. G. GRACE, now nearing his 47th
birthday, made his hundredth innings of 100 runs or over in
first-class matches.]
"_O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!_"
Sang _Punch_ on the seventeenth instant May,
With a true Jabberwockian chortle,
As he saw the swipe, on the Bristol ground,
Which worked GRACE'S hundred of centuries round;
A record ne'er equalled by mortal.
"My beamish boy"--of nigh forty-seven--
There isn't a cheerier sight under heaven
Than W. G. at the wicket.
When your "vorpal" bat "goes snicker-snack,"
_Punch_ loves to lie, with a tree at his back,
And watch what _he_ calls Cricket.
And now, as a topper of thirty years,
After many hopes, and a few faint fears.
(Which _Punch_ never shared for a jiffy.)
You've done the trick! Did your pulse beat quick
As you crept notch by notch within reach of the nick?
Did even _your_ heart feel squiffy?
_Punch_ frankly owns _his_ went pit-a-pat
While he followed the ball and watched your bat
As the nineties slowly tottled;
And the boys of the Bristol Brigade held breath,
In an anxious silence as still as death.
But oh! like good fizz unbottled,
We all "let go" with a loud "hooray"
As the leather was safely "put away"
For that hundredth hundred. Verily,
_Now_ you're the "many centuried" GRACE!
And for many a year may you keep top place,
Piling three-figure innings right merrily!
* * * * *
GAME FROM THE HIGHLANDS.--A "Scotch Golfer of Twenty Years' Standing"
(poor man! he certainly ought to be invited to take the chair at any
Golf meeting!) writes to the _Liverpool Daily Post_ complaining that
novices in England will persist in sounding the letter "l" in the
title of the sport, "although on every green from John o' Groats to
Airlie it remains silent in the mouth of player and caddie alike." As
the Golfer "puts" it, the name should be "goff," or even "gowf." As
long as there is plenty of acreage for the game, an "_ell_" is not
worth mentioning.
* * * * *
MUSICAL NOTE of "Herr WILLY BURMESTER"--or "Our" WILLY. "Bless you!"
as the old salt said; "he fiddles like a angel!" Of course, like all
violinists, the hair of his head is peculiar, but his airs on his
violin are marvellous in execution.
* * * * *
UNIVERSITY PRIVILEGE NOT GENERALLY KNOWN.--When a resident Oxonion is
suffering from a bronchial attack he is entitled to the professional
attendance (gratis) of "The Curators of the Chest."
* * * * *
EXTRA-ORDINARY SELF-ANNIHILATING CANNIBALS.--Children, when they
over-eat themselves.
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