Poem by Norman Rowland Gale

The Old Professional

  Sixty years since the game begun, Sir,
    Sixty years since I took the crease!
  Sixty years in the rain an' sun, Sir,
    Death's been tryin' to end my lease.
  Oh, but he's sent me down some corkers,
    Given me lots of nasty jobs;
  Mixed length-balls with his dazzlin' Yorkers,
    Kickers an' shooters, grubs an' lobs!

  Here I've stood, an' I've met him smilin',
    Takin' all of his nasty bumps;
  Grantin' at times his luck was rilin'
    When reg'lar fizzers tickled the stumps.
  Playin' him straight an' storin' breath, Sir,
    Closely watchin' his artful wrist,
  I've had a rare old tussle with Death, Sir,
    Slammin' the loose 'uns, smotherin' twist!

  Still I know I'm as keen as ever
    Tacklin' the stuff he likes to send,
  Cuttin' an' drivin' his best endeavour
    While pluck an' muscle an' sight befriend.
  I'm slow, in course; an' at times a stitch, Sir,
    Makes me muddle the stroke I planned;
  But I'm not yet ready to leave the pitch, Sir,
    For Lord knows what in the Better Land!

  Some dirty day, when eyes are dimmer,
    Old Death will have his chance to scoff;
  For up his sleeve he's got a trimmer
    Bound to come a yard from the off!
  It'll do me down! But if he's a chap, Sir,
    Able to tell a job well done,
  No doubt he'll give his foe a clap, Sir,
    Walkin' out of the crease an' sun.

  'Tis more than forty years I've tasted
    Sweet and bitter supplied by Luck,
  Never thinkin' an hour was wasted,
    Whether I blobbed or whether I stuck.
  Long as I had some kind of wicket,
    'Twas never the wrong 'un, fast or slow;
  An' I thank my stars I took to Cricket
    Seven-an'-fifty years ago!

  The game's been missus an' kids to me, Sir--
    Aye, an' a rare good girl she's been!
  I met her first at my father's knee, Sir,
    An' married her young on Richmond Green.
  An' as she's proved so true a lover,
    Never inclined to scratch or scold,
  When the long day's fun at last is over,
    I'll love her still in the churchyard cold!

  I've never twisted my brain with thinkin'
    The way life goes in the world above,
  But lessons here there ain't no blinkin'
    Make me guess that the Umpire's Love!
  God knows I've muffed some easy chances
    Of doing good, like a silly lout;
  But because He's fairer nor any fancies
    I'm not in a funk of hearin', "Out!"

1. Up at Lords
2. The Church Cricketant
3. Five Years After
4. Cricket and Cupid
5. The Tutor's Lament

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