Poem by Norman Rowland Gale

The Last Ball of Summer

'Tis the last ball of Summer
  Left rolling alone;
All his artful companions
  Are smitten and gone;
No trace of his kindred,
  No shooter is seen
To relate all the glories
  Of Briggs and Nepean.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
  To curl on the stumps;
Since thy brothers were slogged so,
  Partake of their thumps!
Thus kindly I smack thee
  Afar in the heavens,
Where the mates of thy tribe went
  For sixes and sevens!

And soon may there follow,
  Ere sinews decay,
A capital season
  To get thee away!
For muscles must wither,
  Our cricket be flown;
And we shall inhabit
  Pavilions, and groan!

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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