 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
59
The Old Cricketer's Lament
Ah, known or unknown playfellowsWhom still the old Pavilion hears
Serenely critical of slows,
And wise with all the weight of years—
Men who perchance remember Mynn,
(Of these there are not very many)
And Powys' pace and Butler's spin,
And Francis, Ottaway, and Kenney.
Can you recall a year like this?
A year of rain, a year of woe?
How many catches did we miss!
Was cricket ever half so slow!
Could that gray Bishop —he who played
So gallantly in'27—
Have seen such dire fiascos made
In all his years, by our Eleven?
Nay, let the seasons come and fleet,
Let us be missed from field and town,
Let ancient cricketers who meet
Hint that our wickets have gone down;
They shall not see, they shall not weep
Such weather and such strokes of fate,
As we who sad and slowly creep
From Lord's this awful '88.
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |