Volume 98 — THE FIRST FIGHT.

A haze hung over the Surrey Downs In the early morning; but Nature's frowns Broke up in smiles as the day advanced. And the grey mist cleared and the sunbeams glanced On Murdoch bold, and his merry men. When hundreds of optics, and many a pen Were on the alert, at Sheffield Park, The valiant deeds (between wickets) to mark Of the Seventh Australian Cricketing lot. Murdoch and Lyons, Barrett and Trott, Lads of their inches in flesh and bones; Turner and Walters, Blackham and Jones, Gregory, Charlton and Ferris too; A sterling Eleven, second to few. Whilst "odd men" Trumble and Burn and Boyle "Stood out" of the first big match's toil, 'Gainst Grace and Stoddart, Newham and Read, Sherwin and Shrewsbury, stout at need, Lohmann and Humphreys, and Briggs and Peel, And Attewell with the nerves of steel. No need to tell how they met and fought, And bowled, and batted, and stumped, and caught; But Mr. Punch, who has seen all six Of the other Elevens before the "sticks," And cheered them victors, or vanquished cheered, Shoots forth his fist, as the lists are cleared, To welcome back to an English wicket These champions fresh of Colonial Cricket. He will not "butter" you, boys, for that you'll hate. Only he must most sincerely congratulate His old friend Murdoch on starting so well. Go it, Sir, keep it up, W. L.! Here's wishing the lot of you health and pluck, Decent weather and level luck. And when your last "four" to the boundary flashes, Take all good things home with you—saving those "ashes."