Vainly the cook with female lobs Desires to hit the egg-box wicket; And not among the housemaid's jobs- 'Tis very plain-is garden cricket.
"More Cricket Songs"
Norman Gale
I'll not forgit it till I'm dead- That night when 'ope back in me brisket lobs: 'Ow my Doreen she lays 'er little 'ead Down on me shoulder 'ere, an' sobs an' sobs; An' orl the lights goes sorter blurred an' red.
"The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke"
C. J. Dennis
I wish I had space to describe the whole match; how the captain stumped the next man off a leg-shooter, and bowled slow lobs to old Mr. Aislabie, who came in for the last wicket.
"Tom Brown's School Days"
Thomas Hughes