Norman Rowland Gale

Five Years After

  Many a mate of splice and leather,
  Out in the stiff autumnal weather,
  There we stood by his grave together,
      After his innings;
  All on a day of misty yellow
  Watching in grief a grim old fellow,
  Death, who diddles both young and mellow,
      Pocket his winnings.

  Flew from his hand the matchless skimmer!
  Breaking a yard, the destined trimmer,
  Beating the bat and the eyes grown dimmer,
      Shattered the wicket!
  Slow to the dark Pavilion wending,
  His head on his breast, with Mercy friending,
  The batsman walked to his silent ending,
      Finished with cricket.

  Whether or not that gaunt Professor
  Noting his man; that stark Assessor
  Of faulty play in the bat's possessor
      Clapped for his foeman,
  We who had seen that figure splendid
  Guarding the stumps so well defended
  Wept and cheered when by craft was ended
      Innings and yeoman!

  Not long before the ball that beat him,
  All ends up, went down to meet him,
  Tie him up in a knot, defeat him
    Once and for ever,
  He told his mates that he wished, when hoary
  Time put an end to his famous story,
  To trudge with his old brown bag to Glory,
    Separate never!

  There on the clods the bag was lying!
  There was the rope for the handle's tying!
  How can you wonder we all were crying,
    Utterly broken?
  Scarred and shabby it went. We espied it
  Deep where the grave so soon would hide it,
  Safe on his heart, with his togs inside it--
    Tenderest token!

  There we stood by his grave together,
  Out in the stiff autumnal weather,
  Many a mate of splice and leather,
    After his innings;
  All on a day of misty yellow
  Watching in pain a grabbing fellow,
  Death, who diddles both young and mellow,
    Pocket his winnings.