Helen, thy bowling is to me
Like that wise Alfred Shaw's of yore,
Which gently broke the wickets three:
From Alfred few could smack a four:
Most difficult to score!
The music of the moaning sea,
The rattle of the flying bails,
The grey sad spires, the tawny sails -
What memories they bring to me,
Beholding thee!
Upon our old monastic pitch,
How sportsmanlike I see thee stand!
The leather in thy lily hand,
Oh, Helen of the yorkers, which
Are nobly planned!