Sentence The Fourhundredandfifth

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 a 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!"

So the stolid, gormless, pudding-peg,                                                                                    Rolled his sleeves and began his run,                                                                                      Eased the cramp in his wooden leg,                                                                                      Wanted to give the fellows fun,                                                                                                  Felt the tromometer start to tick,                                                                                                    A dibbly-dobbler in all but name,                                                                                                  It would make that bastard Grace feel sick;                                                                                 To knew that he could win the game, So he pitched it long and it spun out wide,                                                                                  The bat swung wild and he heard it snick,                                                                                        The Keeper's fingers just outside,                                                                                                He wondered if maybe he'd done the trick,                                                                                But behind Long Stop the sky was red,                                                                                     Silly Mid On's red hair aflame,                                                                                                  The Eildon Hills ablaze instead,                                                                                                  And all for the sake of a stupid game! He dropped to his knees and beat his breast,                                                                                 The Umpire pulled the stumps and bails,                                                                              “There's Potted Shrimp, come in, that's best,”                                                                             As he scored his flesh with broken nails,                                                                                  “But see,” he cries, “beyond the Screens!”                                                                                And the Umpire said, “it's all the same,”                                                                                   Tho he saw the men and the death machines,                                                                              That last ball bowled had won the Game!