She asks me why the wretch is not
Immediately turned off the field.

But if the batsmen force the pace,
From me she quickly takes her cue;
Perceives the fun of stolen run,
The overthrow that makes it two.
And as the ball bombards the fence,
Or rattles on the Scorers' hut,
She claps with me the Drive immense,
And prettily applauds the Cut.

Divided at the heart, I seek
With skill to serve a double call:
Though great the Game, it were a shame
To miss her bosom's rise-and-fall.
Cupid and Cricket, unafraid,
Must sink their dread of partnership,
Nor fear to join as stock-in-trade
The boxwood bail, the honeyed lip.

Time was when bigotry compelled
A total worship of the game,
Before the test had pierced my breast,
Before the Idol-breaker came.
But suddenly the sky let down,
Escaped from heaven in pink and gold,
A child to conquer by her gown
The sport so starkly loved of old.