Could you imagine this whole earth could yield
A spot more beautiful than our old cricket field?
Ring'd 'round with immemorial elms it lies a fair green lawn,
Where at the break of dawn
Grey squirrels pay
And robin redbreasts herald the coming day.
Blue sky and sunshine, white sheets unfurled and wickets set,
Now comes a flannel's host to battle, yet
On this fair field
Shall blows be bloodless and the stronger yield.
Our grand old game is like the older game of life,
The youth, a junior at the nets,
Impatient of instruction, frets
For wider fields of strife,
Self-confident, would play the faster balls--
And so, misjudging, down his wickets falls.

School days are over, now with bat in hand he goes to
take his knock in life's great game.
Will he be stumpt or bowl'd or caught or gain renown
like those immortals who are known to fame?
We cannot all be kings of pace
As in his day our own great "Bart" was king,
Or, like that bearded giant Grace,
Recorded a boundary with each mighty swing.
But should our strength be not enough to score a single run,
Yet should we be well satisfied to know our best was done.
And when the grim bowler with his deadly pace
Begins that last "Over" which we all must face,
Be of good cheer;If you have ever done your best nor tried to run your
partner out,
then though the whole world shouts "How's that?"
still have no fear.
The answer may be "you are out" but you will hear
a gentle voice exclaim
"Well played, sir, you've been chosen for a higher game."

The shadows fall, the day is done,
The battle o'er and the victory won.
Dawn...Day...and Gloam.
See there the evening star,
Set like a beacon light afar,
To guide the traveller home.
This mortal game must end. The old scarred bats be laid away.
We heed no more the friendly battle call, and those we
leave behind will say,
"They're resting here awhile, that's all, until they pass,
as through as open door
To meet their Captain who has gone before".

For we are sure that He Who even marks the Sparrow's fall
will not refuse us another cricket ball.
Great Captain, in that many mansioned home, we humbly
pray Thee yield, some little space,
Where we may place again our cricket field.
"Mid pastures green, by waters still
We'll meet again. I know we will,
And praise the Name of Him Who gave the Field and rules the Game.

("Bart" -- J.B. King)