English poem
THE COMMENTATOR.
by Norman Gale (1862–1942)
The throstle in the lilac, Not far beyond the Nets, Upon a spray of purple His beak severely whets: He hears the players calling, He wonders what they're at, As thunder frequent Yorkers Against the stubborn bat.
And as the rank half-volley Its due quietus gets, The bird begins to carol A greeting to the Nets: Amazed at noisy kissing Of ball and wooden blade, In rivalry he whistles A ballad unafraid.
Right jocund is the music That, poured in lovely jets, Accompanies superbly The heroes in the Nets; And sweet the startled pauses Amid the royal song That come when shout together The drive-delighted throng.
The greatness of the uproar Benumbs him, and he lets His pulsing bosom ponder The tumult in the Nets; But soon afresh, while warbling His comment on the game, He puts all human songsters— Quite easily!—to shame.
Thou Herrick in the lilac, The damp of evening wets Upon our shoes the pipeclay, And bids us leave the Nets; But come again to-morrow To mingle with our joy The magic learnt in Eden When Time was but a boy!