Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BADMINTON, by ALFRED COMYNS LYALL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BADMINTON, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Hardly a shot from the gate we stormed
Last Line: God smite their souls to the depths of hell.'
Subject(s): Badminton


Hardly a shot from the gate we stormed,
Under the Moree battlement's shade;
Close to the glacis our game was formed,
There had the fight been, and there we played.

Lightly the demoiselles tittered and leapt,
Merrily capered the players all;
North, was the garden where Nicholson slept,
South, was the sweep of a battered wall.

Near me a Musalman, civil and mild,
Watched as the shuttlecocks rose and fell;
And he said, as he counted his beads and smiled,
'God smite their souls to the depths of hell.'





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