Sing, O Muse, of the contest beneath the bright and kindly sun,
When light fell golden upon the fair outfield of Hyde End,
And men of Newport Inn, though valiant, lost the casting of fate,
And were commanded first to take the field and bowl.
Swift as a storm wind came Tim Cook, hurler of searing pace,
His arm a lightning bolt, his deliveries fierce and unrelenting;
Ahead him stood the mountainous Hill, cunning in stance,
A riddle to those who dared challenge the crease.
Yet steadfast among them was Harrington, son of resolve,
Who stood unyielding before adversity’s rising tide.
Long he endured, through toil and testing of spirit,
His bat a shield against the assault of tireless foes.
But lo—when ninety minutes had passed beneath the heavens,
The warrior awoke, and fury took hold of his stroke.
He culled the bowling as a lion among cattle,
Driving and striking with noble craft and growing wrath,
Until at last he reached a hundred—glorious, complete—
His final fifty wrought in bold and aggressive triumph.
Then came the feared Bomb Squad, heralded with thunder,
Yet fate denied them glory; briefly they flared, then faded,
Striking but little before departing the field of battle.
Still, the tally stood proud—two hundred and five-and-twenty runs,
For the loss of six, a fortress not lightly taken.
Between the trials of contest, a feast was laid—
A banquet worthy of kings and comrades alike:
Great platters shared, abundance without end,
And cheeses fine, spread wide as a bounteous offering.
When Newport rose to chase their foe’s stronghold,
Their beginning was slow, as if bound by unseen chains.
Wickets fell like leaves in autumn’s breath,
Shared among the bowlers as spoils of war,
Though three were claimed by Elliot of the hooping ball,
Whose cunning deliveries ensnared the unwary.
At last came the final stand, the closing moments of trial:
Young Max, new to the fray, entered the fray with hope.
He cast his leg-spin—subtle, treacherous, artful—
Seeking to break the resistance and claim immortal praise,
Yet the breakthrough eluded him, as destiny decreed.
So ended the contest beneath the lingering sun,
Not in victory, nor in defeat, but in honourable draw—
Each side unyielding, each proven in spirit.
And of the young one, Max, let it be sung:
Clad in the cap of his forebear, he moved with budding grace,
Casting the ball from third man unto third man afar.
Three runs he claimed, though none in wickets—
Yet promise shone about him like dawn’s first light,
And surely he shall be welcomed again to the field of heroes.