Happy is England! I could be content
To see no other pitches than its own;
To feel no other breezes than are blown
By her tall seamers with guileless bowling bent:
Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment
For wickets ‘Strine, and with inward groan
Hunger for fields and Foes to test one’s own.
Who’d exegete what bat or bowling meant.
Happy is England, sweet her artless fielders;
Enough her trembling leg-glances for me,
Enough her harmless shows of leather flinging:
Yet do I often warmly burn to see
Ashes of steeper chance, and bear their winning,
Toe to toe ‘gainst more doughty willow wielders.
