The game of cricket has inspired much poetry, most of which romanticises the sport and its culture. Poems Cricket: An Heroic Poem Hail, cricket| Glorious, manly, British Game! First of all Sports! be first alike in Fame. The poem by James Love is too long to quote in full; above are its opening two lines. It describes a match in 1744 between Kent and England. It is written in rhyming couplets. According to H.S. Altham, it "should be in every cricket lover's library" and "his description of the game goes with a rare swing". The poem is the first substantial piece of literature about cricket. At Lord's Poet: Francis Thompson It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk, Though my own red roses there may blow; It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk, Though the red roses crest the caps, I know. For the field is full of shades as I near a shadowy coast, And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost, And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host As the run stealers flicker to and fro, To and fro: O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago! It's Glo'ster coming North, the irresistible, The Shire of the Graces, long ago! It's Gloucestershire up North, the irresistible, And new-risen Lancashire the foe! A Shire so young that has scarce impressed its traces, Ah, how shall it stand before all-resistless Graces ? O, little red rose, their bats are as maces To beat thee down, this summer long ago! This day of seventy-eight they are come up north against thee This day of seventy-eight long ago! The champion of the centuries, he cometh up against thee, With his brethren, every one a famous foe! The long-whiskered Doctor, that laugheth the rules to scorn, While the bowler, pitched against him, bans the day he was born; And G.F. with his science makes the fairest length forlorn; They are come from the West to work thee woe! It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk, Though my own red roses there may blow; It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk, Though the red roses crest the caps, I know. For the field is full of shades as I near a shadowy coast, And a ghostly batsman plays to