Norman Rowland Gale

The Commentator

  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!