MORE CRICKET
TO AN OLD BAT
When Vesper trails her gown of grey
Across the lawn at six or seven
The diligent observer may
(Or may) see, athwart the heaven,
An aimless rodent on the wing. Well, that
Is (probably) a Bat....
In any case I shall not sing of that.
————
O Willow, in our hours of ease
(That is to say, throughout the Winter),
I take you sometimes on my knees,
And careless of the frequent splinter,
Caress you tenderly, and sigh, and say,
"Ye Gods, how long till May?"
And so as soon as April's here
I do not sob for Spring to show its
Pale daffodils and all the dear
Old flowers that keep the minor poets;
I sing it just because a month (about)
Will find you fairly out.
Revered, beloved, O you whose job
Is but to serve throughout the season—
To make, if so it be, the Blob,
And not (thank heaven!) to ask the reason—
To stand, like Mrs Hemans' little friend,
Undoubting to the end:
Old Willow, what a tale to tell—
Our steady rise, from small beginnings,
Ab ovo usque—usque—well,
To eighty-four, our highest innings;
(Ah me, that crowded hour of glorious lives—
Ten of them, all from drives!)
Once only have you let me in,
Through all the knocks we've had together;
That time when, wanting four to win,
I fairly tried to tonk the leather—
And lo! a full-faced welt, without the least
Warning, went S.S.E.
A painful scene. In point of fact
I'm doubtful if I ought to hymn it;
Enough to say you went and cracked,
And left me thinking things like "Dimmit"
(And not like "Dimmit"), as I heard Slip call
"Mine!" and he pouched the ball.
Do you remember, too, the game
One August somewhere down in Dorset
When, being told to force the same,
We straightway started in to force it....
For half-an-hour or so we saw it through,
And scratched a priceless two;
Or how the prayer to play for keeps
And hang the runs, we didn't need 'em,
So stirred us, we collected heaps
With rather more than usual freedom;
Fifteen in fourteen minutes—till a catch
Abruptly closed the match?
* * * * * *
Well, well—the coming years (if fine)
Shall see us going even stronger;
So pouring out the oil and wine,
Let's sit and drink, a little longer;
Here's to a decent average of ten!
(Yours is the oil. Say when....)
—————
When Morning on the heels of Night
Picks up her shroud at five and after,
The diffident observer might
(Or might not) see, beneath a rafter,
A pensive rodent upside down. Well, that
Is (possibly) a Bat....
In any case I have not sung of that.