Michael Holding

It was the best of times for us, we lovers of the game The field was green and sweetly laid And you whispered swift wind, storm with silver flame The red eyed ball silent, and unafraid. The knights wore white who came to joust, each cause Against our claim, we had one ball Without a chain, a free man between the lion's raw paws, You took the ball, and foes did fall. Yes, Sir pure in heart, your vote was not to war, but life Is set by things outside of our choice The call was made by history, and you forged well its strife To run up whispering, our Rolls Royce. The shackle on the human mind in strange symbols hide You stood long for us without deceit Your battles were our pride, the lamb fortune did provide For virtue backed by right has no defeat. So now the battlefield is cleared, and singers sing no more I the last trobadour will your homage pay Great Cricketer among the score, your missile from our shore Has swept the sense of least away, away.