Birds, Batsmen and Bowlers

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!