(With apologies to the late Mrs Browning.)
Oh, to be in England Now that Summer's there; For who plays the Game in England Is each morning well aware That the cricket pitch is waterlogged And the in-field's wet and the outfield's bogged. For it's surely raining, anyhow, In England –- now. And after showers, some rain follows, And the puddles form in all the hollows –- Hark! Where the water gurgles in the ditch! 'Tis the voice of the English umpire sadly saying: "Oh, have a heart, man! Just look at the pitch! There's not the remotest chance of playing: And you never will recapture The Ashes. Curb your rapture! And tho' the fields look wet and drear to you, All will be gay when Summer wakes anew For half an hour, or mayhap half a day. But you, thank goodness, will be far away." Here's to Bradman's memory! This is the twentieth time that we, Waiting for gloomy cables here, Have drunk it deep in Aussie beer. Bradman for ever –- any time I am his to command in prose or rhyme! Give him but one more chance To drive, and cut, and glance. Here's to the Captain, too, and so Down, by Gum, shall it go! He says that at Old Trafford sadly each beholder Watches the rain, while it grows cold and colder. "Aw, let's chuck it!" he says. "The Test's a fizzle! If it isn't a downpour here it's a drizzle. Let us pack up, and mizzle."
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2003|