The Collected Cricket Poems of Robert Burns (rhb, rmf)
As discovered by Fantasy Bob
Winter Night
When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
The crick’ter’s year is langsyne o’er
He whiles regrets
Then maun the frozen chiel endure
Thon winter nets
Like Odysseus in the Iliad
The coach doth call his myriad
Groaning seniors and keen young lads
No one forgets
To scour each press tae find their pads
For winter nets
In a drafty schoolhouse gym
Peers Fant’sy Bob through darkness dim
Saft muscles bruised on ilka limb
Face mortal threats
Whan junior quickies bowl at him
In winter nets
Has Fant’sy Bob lost a’ his reason
See him bowl he’ll na stop wheezin
See him bat ye’d think he’s bleezin
They're makin' bets
He'll hit it yet afore the season
At winter nets
Lord can ye hear oor lamentation
Cruel hibernal tribulation
Tholin' winter nets' privation
Nothing drearer
There’s but one sma' consolation
Summer’s nearer
The Gift Tae Gie Us
Oh thou! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie!
The Batsmen true can ne'er refute thee,
Thou Hellish sinner.
In the Devil's sway we'll put thee,
Reviled leg spinner.
When auld lang syne Benaud and Warnie,
Were clearly baith the chiels o' Hornie,
Made English batsmen grope forlornly,
It turned sae vilely.
But there’s no mortal human born, he
Beats Bill O’Reilly.
An' noo despite his monstrous patter,
Could Fant'sy Bob be cried a batter?
Forbye he gies the ba' a clatter,
Wi' michty fleg, he
Finds his vain pretensions shatter,
Against a leggie.
Ye'd hae tae see it tae believe it,
He disnae ken tae play or leave it,
He'll aye end up just trying tae heave it,
Then mak' tae thump it,
Gie it the charge and so maun grieve it,
Oh Bob! Thou'rt stumpit.
The coach says watch the ba's rotations,
Advice that gies Bob consternations,
An’ hours o' tortuous vexations,
Thru' sleepness night.
Hoo can Bob mak sic observations,
Battin' wi' e'e shut tight?
Leg spin - it's Satan's bowling action,
For darkness marks its malefaction,
Tormenting batters tae distraction,
Oor nerves are shoogly.
Then will the De'il sense petrifaction,
An' bowl the googly.
Oh wad some power the gift tae gie us,
Tae play leg spin as naethin' devious,
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
Stop melancholy.
And dream some day that ithers see us,
Bat just like Kohli.
Robert Burns’ Rant on the ICC
Oor cricket is a cantie game
That’s played the warld o’er
Wi' honesty its middle name
An' lo'ed by rich and poor
Ye’d jalouse this game is o’er-seen
By council weel electit
But fegs, there's just the gang o' three
Sic a parcel o' rogues running cricket
The Test match was the skyrit jewel
Thy grandeur’s been dilutit
By coontless twenty over duels
True cricket is pollutit
A twa Test series' meagre meal
For ODIs restrictit
Bought and sold for T20 gold
Sic a parcel o' rogues running cricket
Associates graced the warld cup
And had the michty crying
It drove them on, it fired them up
The dream of qualifying
They won't be there next time around
The minnows are neglectit
A selfish pact has slammed the door
Sic a parcel o' rogues running cricket
Olympic Games could spread the sport
To a' the warld's nations
The powers-that-be maun gie support?
But spurned the invitation
Maun we thole sic arrant failure
Wi' IPL gold complicit?
England India Australia
Sic a parcel o' rogues ruining cricket
Address to an Umpire
O thou! whatever title suit thee,—
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie!
Thou art ne'er a thing o’ beauty
Nor yet inspiring
Thou maun do your cricketing duty
By Umpiring
In upper grades th’ umpire’s appointed
Wi' sponsors’ logos weel anointed
But in low’r leagues we’re disappointed
Thou'rt just a player
Thy knowledge of the laws disjointed
And peculiar
Whiles aifter tea thou felt like rest
But mercy be thou'rt cruelly pressed
The skipper says there's no chiel else
Prepared tae stand
The juniors couldna tak' the stress
But thou art the man
What could be simpler than to count six
It disnae need Higher Mathematics
But every over's full o' tricks
Tae complicate
No balls, dead balls, wides. Thy count is fix'd
By guestimate
The LB law's a real damnation
Each chiel has his interpretation
But can he gie an explanation
O' a decision
Withoot causing consternation
Or derision?
'Not out,' we hear thee sagely cry
'It's missing leg; it's ower high;
The ball has hit the batsman's thigh;
No stump wad be hit;
An' onywye, the sun was in my eye
I didna see it
There's places in this noble land
Where billies deem LB's been banned
So have the years passed since the man
Has raised the finger
Though bowlers scream their fraught demand
The batters linger
A loud appeal for caught behind
Thou must be deef, thou must be blind
Could thou hear, nor see, nor call tae mind
A deviation?
Thon batter's no a walkin' kind
It's ruination
Fegs! Low'r league players we a' suffer
At the whims o' sic a duffer
But we shouldna tak the huff for
There's no reason
We'll get the smoother and the rougher
O'er the season
Ah umpires! Thou must be respectit
I pay thee tribute thou'rt so neglectit
It ill becomes those at the wicket
To yell and doobt thee
For there would be nae bonny cricket
Were we withoot thee
To A Doughty Groundsman
Fair fa’ your honest doughty face
Great chieftain o’ the groundsman race
In the middle tak your place
Mow, roll, repair
Your cheery greeting rings through space
GET AFF THE SQUARE
To mak a wicket taks for ever
But who respects your great endeavour?
These players should be mair clever
You can despair
You tell them oft but they never
GET AFF THE SQUARE
Ye tend the strip, ye gie it bounce
The players dinna help an ounce
But aifter play they preen and flounce
Fegs! Everywhere
Till ye maun doughtily pronounce
GET AFF THE SQUARE
In winter whan the sna is flyin’
Players in their beds are lyin’
Sair wi' cauld the puir lambs cryin’
We can compare
Ye toil through winter scarifyin'
THATCH AFF THE SQUARE
Some folk may tak ye for a bore
When ye drone on aboot the mower
And moan the hunnels mak ye sore
Why should they care?
But muckle grass? Ye’ll see them glower
GET AFF THE SQUARE
Ah! Doughty groundsmen are a special breed
An’ ilka club must meet their need
For tractor oil, loam and seed
Sic modest fare
It’s nae charity tae pay them heed
GET AFF THE SQUARE
Ae Fond Kiss
Ae big swing and then we sever
Oot first ball the same as ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll linger
Tho the umpire raised his finger,
Says it’s leg afore the wicket
Tho I’m telling ye I nicked it
And worse than that, this fact I beg
It pitched two feet outside of leg.
Oh umpire how ill ye've blundered
For I could have had a hundred
Faced one ball and the temptation
Led to unjust ruination
Had I never swung sae blindly
I might have seen the ball pitch kindly
Had I never tried to cart it
I would ne’er be broken hearted.
ooOoo
To A Strauss
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
Oh, whit a panic's in thy breastie!
The test at Dubai ends o’er hastie
Thou'rt in a sochter
Noo Abu Dhabi won’t be tasty
It micht be slaughter
For whiles thy bowlers a’ got passes
Thy fancy batters played like arses
When one is oot, the rest collapses
They lookit wabbit
KP played like he had paral’sis
An' Bell’s a rabbit
We micht hae looked for some resilience
Frae those wha tak IPL’s millions
But what we got wis far frae brilliance
Exceptin' Prior
Micht Panesar mak unco diff’rence
To fecht fire wi' fire?
Thon Ajmal won’t be ony easier
Bowlin' his new fangled teesra
Bell could hae an unco seizure
Hoo can he pick it?
Watchin’ sic torture brings nae pleasure
Leg afore wicket
Ah Straussie thou art insecure
Ye’re staunin' deep in thick manure
The best laid schemes o’ Andy Floo'er
Gang aft agley
When spinners bowl into the stoor
Ye’ve feet o' clay
For A’ That
Is there for honest poverty
That hings his bat, an’ a’ that
The gowden duck, we pass him by
We’ll nae be oot for a’ that
For a’ that, an’ a’ that
We’re aff the mark for a’ that
The scorer’s pit it in the book
A run’s a run for a’ that
For through the slips oor shot has flown
It’s crossed the rope for a’ that
The bowler’s radge, the fielders moan
A four’s a four an’ a’ that
For a’ that, an’ a’ that
A big top edge an’ a’ that
The honest bat should aye play straight
A run’s a run for a’ that
Ye see yon birkie Pietersen
Wha struts an’ stares an’ a’ that
A' the world reminds him when
He couldna score for a’ that
For a’ that, an’ a’ that
His reverse sweep and a’ that
Holin’ oot at deep third man
Is nae damn good for a’ that
Thon Cook can mak a double ton
No breakin’ sweat an’ a’ that
But Fant’sy Bob slaves o’er a run
They’re rarer chiels for a’ that
For a’ that an’ a’ that
He taks a swing an’ a’ that
Aff either edge he disnae mind
A run’s a run for a’ that
Then let us pray that come it mun
(As come it will for a’ that)
That Fant’sy Bob’ll score a ton
An bear the gree an’ a’ that
For a’ that an’ a’ that
It’s coming yet for a’ that
That man to man, the world o’er
Shall cricketers be for a’ that
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