And we spoke many words of sorrow,
And we steadfastly gazed on the state of the game,
As we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we watched how our wickets fell,
And reckoned the meagre scoring,
That the foe and the stranger would thrash us all well,
And we, far behind them, deploring.
Lightly they'll think of the runs we've put on,
And o'er a cold luncheon upbraid us;
But little we'd reck if bad weather came on,