Classic Poem

How was my spirit torn in twain
When on the field arrayed
My neighbours with my comrades strove,
My town against my trade.

And are the penmen players all?
Did Shakespeare shine at cricket?
And in what hour did Bunyan wait
Like Christian at the wicket?

When did domestic Dickens stand
A fireside willow wielding?
And playing cricket — on the hearth,
And where was Henry Fielding?

Is Kipling, as a flannelled fool,
Or Belloc bowling guns,
The name that he who runs may read
By reading of his runs?

Come all; our land hath laurels too,
While round our beech-tree grows
The shamrock of the exiled Burke
Or Waller's lovely rose.

Who ever win or lose, our flags
Of fun and honour furled,
The glory of the game shall stand
Stonewalling all the world,

While those historic types survive
For England to admire,
Twin pillars of our storied past,
The Burgess and the Squire.