I sing not of grim-visaged war

I sing not of grim-visaged war, Nor diplomatic rage, But I shall string my harp in praise Of the worthies of our age.

They are a class of noble men, Whom England holds most dear. Whose feats so grand adorn our land, Like the famous cricketeer?

The Ancient Greek his chariot ran, It was his Royal sport; The Roman gladiator fought To please the Royal Court.

The Spaniard with his javelin knife The wild bull's flesh he tears; But alack a-day! what sports are they With our grand cricketeers.

And well old Keighley can be proud Of her famed sons to-day; Some of them are with us yet, While others are away.

Brave Brown! brave Foulds and Waring, With good men in the rear, And not forgetting Emmett, The brave old cricketeer.

Then while they have their Grand Bazaar, Pray let us rally round, And give a hand to renovate Their well-loved cricket ground.

For well I wot both young and old, Will find from year to year, More interest in the noble sport Of the grand old cricketeer.

The Mexican may throw his lance, The Scotchman put his stone, With all the scientific skill Of muscle and of bone.

Give Switzerland her honour'd place With rifles and with spears, But give to me our grand old sport, Our famous cricketeers.

[Picture: Rural scene]