54

DEATH S DOINGS.

Now Life, to me, has always seem'd a Game —Not a mere game of chance, but one where skillWill often throw the chances in our way—

Just like (my favourite sport) the Game of Cricket;Where, tho' the match be well contested, still

A steady Player, careful of his fame,

May have a good long Innings, with fair play,

Whoever bowls, or stops, or keeps the wicket.

Softly, my friend! (methinks I hearDEATH cry)

Whoever bowls, you say! sure you forget

That in Life's feverish fitful game

I am the Bowler, and friend Time "keeps wicket:"—

Well! be it so, old boy,—is my reply;

I know you do—but, Master Drybones, yetMy argument remains the same,And I can prove Life's like the Game of Cricket!

Sometimes a Batsman's lull'd by Bowler Death,Who throws him off his guard with easy balls;

Till presently a rattler stops his breath—

He's out! Life's candle's snuffd—his wicket falls !

In goes another mate — Death bowls away—And with such art each practis'd method tries,

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