Norman Rowland Gale (Норман Гейл)
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!
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