Thy bat, ball, and wicket,
Are needed no more.
To thy sister we turn,
For her coming we pray:
Her worshippers burn
For the heat of the fray.

Hail! Goddess of battle,
Yet hated of Ma(r)s,
How ceaseless their tattle
Of tumbles and scars!
Such warnings are vain,
For thy rites we prepare,
Youth is yearning again
In thy perils to share.

Broken limbs and black eyes,
May, perchance, be our lot;
But grant goals and ties
And we care not a jot.
Too sacred to name
With thy posts, ball, and field,
There is no winter game
To which thou canst yield.

* * * * *

NEW TRANSLATION--"VERY CHOICE ITALIAN,"--"_Sotto voce_;" i.e., in a
drunken tone of voice.