When earth awakes as from some dreadful night
    And doffs her melancholy mourning state,
  When May buds burst in blossom and requite
    Our weary eyes for Winter’s tedious wait,
  Then the pale bard takes down his dusty lyre
  And strikes the thing with more than usual fire. 
  Myself, compacted of an earthier clay,
  I oil my bats and greasy homage pay
    To Cricket, who, with emblems of his court,
  Stumps, pads, bails, gloves, begins his Summer sway. 
    Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport.

  As yet no shadows blur the magic light,
    The glamour that surrounds the opening date. 
  Illusions yet undashed my soul excite
    And of success in luring whispers prate. 
  I see myself in form; my thoughts aspire
  To reach the giddy summit of desire. 
  Lovers and such may sing a roundelay,
  Whate’er that be, to greet returning May;
    For me, not much—­the season’s all too short;
  I hear the mower hum and scent the fray. 
    Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport.

  A picture stands before my dazzled sight,
    Wherein the hero, ruthlessly elate,
  Defies all bowlers’ concentrated spite. 
    That hero is myself, I need not state. 
  ’Tis sweet to see their captain’s growing ire
  And his relief when I at last retire;
  ’Tis sweet to run pavilionwards and say,
  “Yes, somehow I was seeing them to-day”—­
    Thus modesty demands that I retort
  To murmured compliments upon my play. 
    Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport.

  The truth’s resemblance is, I own, but slight
    To these proud visions which my soul inflate. 
  This is the sort of thing:  In abject fright
    I totter down the steps and through the gate;
  Somehow I reach the pitch and bleat, “Umpire,
  Is that one leg?” What boots it to inquire? 
  The impatient bowler takes one grim survey,
  Speeds to the crease and whirls—­a lightning ray? 
    No, a fast yorker.  Bang! the stumps cavort. 
  Chastened, but not surprised, I go my way. 
    Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport.

  Lord of the Game, for whom these lines I write,
    Fulfil my present hope, watch o’er my fate;
  Defend me from the swerver’s puzzling flight;
    Let me not be run out, at any rate. 
  As one who’s been for years a constant trier,
  Reward me with an average slightly higher;
  Let it be double figures.  This I pray,
  Humblest of boons, before my hair grows grey
    And Time’s flight bids me in the last resort
  Try golf, or otherwise your cause betray. 
    Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport.

  King, what though Age’s summons I obey,
  Resigned to dull rheumatics and decay,
    Still on one text my hearers I’ll exhort,
  As long as hearers within range will stay: 
    “Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport.”