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Poem by Norman Rowland Gale


The Last Ball of Summer


'Tis the last ball of Summer
  Left rolling alone;
All his artful companions
  Are smitten and gone;
No trace of his kindred,
  No shooter is seen
To relate all the glories
  Of Briggs and Nepean.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
  To curl on the stumps;
Since thy brothers were slogged so,
  Partake of their thumps!
Thus kindly I smack thee
  Afar in the heavens,
Where the mates of thy tribe went
  For sixes and sevens!

And soon may there follow,
  Ere sinews decay,
A capital season
  To get thee away!
For muscles must wither,
  Our cricket be flown;
And we shall inhabit
  Pavilions, and groan!



Norman Rowland Gale


Norman Rowland Gale's other poems:
  1. Quinquaginta Annos Natus
  2. Chuck Her Up
  3. Out
  4. England v. Australia
  5. A Boundary


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