lies a-sleeping underneath the Kentish grass, Proudly, sadly will we name him – to forget him were a sin. Lightly lie the turf upon thee, kind and manly Alfred Mynn! Les Murray The Australian poet Les Murray wrote "The Aboriginal Cricketer": Good-looking young man in your Crimean shirt with your willow shield up, as if to face spears, you're inside their men's Law, one church they do obey; they'll remember you were here. Keep fending off their casts. Don't come out of character. Like you they suspect idiosyncrasy of witchcraft. Above all, don't get out too easily, and have to leave here where all missiles are just leather and come from one direction. Keep it noble. Keep it light. Others One of the most famous pieces of nostalgic rose-tinted poems is Vitaï Lampada by Sir Henry Newbolt. There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night— Ten to make and the match to win— A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in. And it's not for the sake of the ribboned coat, Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote "Play up! play up! and play the game!" The sand of the Desert is sodden red,— Red with the wreck of a square that broke— The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead, And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. The river of death has brimmed its banks, And England's far, and Honour a name, But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks, "Play up! play up! and play the game!" This is the word that year by year While in her place the school is set Every one of her sons must hear, And none that hears it dare forget. This they all with a joyful mind Bear through life like a torch in flame, And falling fling to the host behind— "Play up! play up! and play the game!" The very short "A Cricket Poem" by Harold Pinter encapsulates the mood and nostalgia common to lovers of cricket: I saw Len Hutton in his prime, Another time, another time. Andrew Lang's cricketing parody of Ralph Waldo Emerson's "Brahma" is memorable: If the wild bowler thinks he bowls, Or if the batsman thinks he's bowled, They know not, poor misguided souls, They too shall perish unconsoled. I am the batsman and the bat,