Twice a Week the Winter Thorough

 Twice a week the winter thorough 
Here stood I to keep the goal: 
Football then was fighting sorrow 
For the young man's soul.
 

Now in Maytime to the wicket 
Out I march with bat and pad: 
See the son of grief at cricket 
Trying to be glad.
 

Try I will; no harm in trying: 
Wonder 'tis how little mirth 
Keeps the bones of man from lying 
On the bed of earth.

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