Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Birds, Batsmen And Bowlers - Poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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!
Comments about Birds, Batsmen And Bowlers by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You