Up to the present the remarkable thing about our cricketers' English tour is the manner in which, when opening batsmen fail, others come almost automatically to the rescue with creditable scores, and save the rot. Much the same condition of things characterises the bowling: if it is not one then it is another.
The throstle now in English lanes Bids Summer strew her dear delights. . . . But we, intent on cricket gains, Watch well our valiant willow knights. With eager eyes on cabled news, We watch each bravely mounting score; With ears half frozen, we refuse To go to bed; but crane for more From out the ether, as we sit And "listen-in," tho' midnight's gone. While glorious centuries they hit -- (And if it isn't Bradman, it's Ponsford; and if it isn't Ponsford, it's Woodfull; and if it isn't Woodfull, it's McCabe; and if it isn't McCabe, it's Chipperfield; and if it isn't Chipperfield --) Gosh! Can this sort of thing go on? Our hope lies not alone in Don; Others remain to carry on. The Merry Mavis, fluting free In England now by wood and weald, Calls from the edge of Arcady. . . . But, as our bowlers take the field, We mark them with a mental eye, Striving against the mimic foe, Despite one Shaw. (Let Mavis cry, The foolish fowl.) We see them mow The wickets down; this way and that, Turning the ball. Rare joy we sup To mark their cunning beat the bat -- (And if it isn't Wall, it's O'Reilly; and if it isn't O'Reilly, it's Grimmett; and if it isn't Grimmett, it's Fleetwood-Smith; and if it isn't Fleetwood-Smith --) Oh Gosh! Can our men keep this up? The Test? Alas, what bitter cup -- Hey! Shut that kookaburra up!
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2003-06|