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!
(C J Dennis)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Cry Poems, Fool Poems, England Poems, Media & News Poems, English PoemsBased on Keywords: weald, throstle, wickets, reilly, kookaburra, bowlers, mccabe, bradman, listen-in