Boyet’s 1898 Australian cricket poem

A nineteenth century poem I discovered some years ago researching Papers Past is ‘An Old Battler’s Lament’ by Boyet. It was published in The Evening Post, 7 January 1899, in New Zealand but was originally published in The Australasian, 31 December 1898, so the author is Australian.

AI says:

“Historically, the real identity behind the "Boyet" pseudonym has remained unconfirmed and anonymous. Because "Ways of the World" was a high-society gossip and social commentary column in The Australasian, writers routinely hid behind pen names to protect themselves from legal trouble or social backlash. The name itself is a literary nod: Boyet is a courtier in Shakespeare’s Love's Labour's Lost, known for being a sharp, smooth-tongued observer who comments on the romantic and political games of the wealthy. It was the perfect cloak for a columnist detailing the inner circles of late 19th-century Melbourne and early Australian cricket culture.”

I will include the poem in the Tingling Catch archive.

BOYET

An Old Battler’s Lament

Cricket is a pleasant game
  That people play with bats and stumps;
Also an insect of the name
  Sits round the homely hearth and jumps.
     I cannot say I ever knew
     A sporting man confuse the two.

At times the wicket's worse than moist,
 The bowlers make man Friday’s track.
They plough the pitch, and lumps are hoist
  And dotted on the batsman’s back.
    But Jacky Worrall hits ’em high,
    And jambs the leather in the sky.

Your cricketer, we all agree,
  At frequent “intervals” must rest.
He must have lunch, some smokes, and tea.
  It’s tea that makes him do his best.
     It is the sugar, toast, and scone
     That helps to drive the game along.

At times when batsmen poke and potter,
  And scratch just like a laying hen.
And people shout, “O! rot, rot, rotter!”
  I curl me on my bench, and then
     To sleep it through I do my best,
     With Harry Hilliard and the rest.

I slept and saw a cricket ground,
  Ere “intervals” and “grand stands” came.
On forms the people sat around
  And watched the quick and lively game.
     “Well hit,” “well bowled,” “well fielded” too;
     No sleeping then spectators knew.

It was a treat— they played the game,
  And those who played, “the good old sort,”
You couldn’t call a moment tame.
  I had a full fair hour’s sport. A shout! —
     I woke — some one had scored,
     Two more to “Sundries” on the board!

— Boyet, in Australasian.

(The Evening Post, 7 January 1899)