Bowl me no more: the man may draw the stumps;
The rain may swoop from heaven and swamp the crease;
In folds of baize the bat may lie at peace;
But oh, too fond of yorkers, breaks and bumps,
Bowl me no more!
Bowl me no more: 'tis dark at half-past five;
The misty light betrays the keenest eye.
O Cricket, dismal autumn bids thee die!
Bowl me no more: Football is all alive;
Bowl me no more!
Bowl me no more: bat's fate and ball's is seal'd.
I strove to make my thousand, all in vain:
Like a great river ran the ceaseless rain,
And spoiled the wickets. Lo, I leave the field
Bowl me no more!
* * * * *