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C J Dennis - Birds, Batsmen and Bowlers
Work rating: Low

The throstle now in English lanes
   Bids Summer strew her dear delights. . . .
But we, intent on cricket gains,
   Watch well our valiant willow knights.
With eager eyes on cabled news,
   We watch each bravely mounting score;
With ears half frozen, we refuse
   To go to bed; but crane for more
From out the ether, as we sit
   And "listen-in," tho` midnight`s gone.
While glorious centuries they hit --
   (And if it isn`t Bradman, it`s Ponsford;
      and if it isn`t Ponsford, it`s Woodfull;
      and if it isn`t Woodfull, it`s McCabe;
      and if it isn`t McCabe, it`s Chipperfield;
      and if it isn`t Chipperfield --)
   Gosh!  Can this sort of thing go on?
   Our hope lies not alone in Don;
   Others remain to carry on.

The Merry Mavis, fluting free
   In England now by wood and weald,
Calls from the edge of Arcady. . . . 
   But, as our bowlers take the field,
We mark them with a mental eye,
   Striving against the mimic foe,
Despite one Shaw.  (Let Mavis cry,
   The foolish fowl.)  We see them mow
The wickets down; this way and that,
   Turning the ball.  Rare joy we sup
To mark their cunning beat the bat --
   (And if it isn`t Wall, it`s O`Reilly;
    and if it isn`t O`Reilly, it`s Grimmett;
    and if it isn`t Grimmett, it`s Fleetwood-Smith;
    and if it isn`t Fleetwood-Smith --)
   Oh Gosh!  Can our men keep this up?
   The Test?  Alas, what bitter cup --
   Hey!  Shut that kookaburra up!
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