Poem by Norman Rowland Gale

The Dark Bowler

  I know that Bowler, dark and lean,
    Who holds his tongue, and pegs away,
  And never fails to come up keen,
    However hard and straight I play.
  Spinning and living, from his hand
    The leather, full of venom, leaps;
  How nicely are his changes planned,
    And what a lovely length he keeps!

  Because he pulls his brim so low,
    However earnestly one tries
  One never sees the darkling glow,
    That must be nimble in his eyes.
  The fellow's judgment never nods,
    His watchful spirit never sleeps.
  There was a clinking ball! Ye gods,
    Why, what a splendid length he keeps!

  At times he bowls an awkward ball
    That in the queerest manner swerves,
  And this delivery of them all
    Takes most elastic from my nerves:
  It comes, and all along my spine
    A sense of desolation creeps;
  Till now the mastery is mine,
    But--what a killing length he keeps!

  That nearly passed me! That again
    Miraculously missed the bails!
  Too good a sportsman to complain,
    He never flags, he never stales.
  Small wonder if his varied skill
    So fine a harvest daily reaps,
  For how he marries wit and will!
    And what a deadly length he keeps!

1. Up at Lords
2. The Church Cricketant
3. On the Spot
4. A Boundary
5. Five Years After

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