Fear no more the heat o' Fred
Nor the furious home press rages;
Thou thy Ashes task hast done,
Read it in The Times' back pages:
Golden English dreams all must,
On 5th day wickets, come to dust.
Vivian James, Croydon
The convicts have come here once again,
To whip the poms, if it doesn't rain.
They said it was going to be five nil
They must have thought England's team were ill.
Now they will play on that sacred turf,
Who will be master, who will be serf.
We'll have to sit and wait and see
So have a cuppa, and watch TV.
Richard William, Huddersfield
How happy they were,
The world's number ones.
How happy they were,
And so relieved.
To have scraped a draw with the lowly Poms.
A result far better than they could have believed.
How happy they were,
McGrath and Lee.
How happy they were
At the end of the day.
To have played the last ball and a wicket still free
Quick 'high fives' then scuttle away.
How happy they were
That Manchester night
How happy they were
To be brought so low
Against a side 'That had no fight'
'Just a five nil thrashing' a short month ago.
(Composed after the Old Trafford draw)
Barry Henderson, Whitley Bay
The wizard's poised, his plot now ready
His foe steadfast, his willow steady
The eyes lock, let battle commence
Attack their aim, no time for defence
The sorcerer casts his latest spell
"Where this I send you cannot tell !"
With a mighty blow the threat's dispatched
No chance to stop, or block, or catch
"Take back your magic", Sir Freddie cries
"I'll not succumb to your guile and disguise"
"Your reign is done, you've had your turn -
Relinquish your crown and return the urn !"
Adrian Moore, Romsey
The Ashes, The Ashes
come one and come all.
No such fervour for cricket
since Bradman's last ball.
For this country has fallen
in love, again, with the game;
the game was forgotten
through the losses and shame.
But with spirits rekindled
through the flash of Fred's blade.
And the stumps all akimbo,
what a mess Jones has made.
The tabloids are chirping
all the pundits weigh in.
But there's no urn for the English if the Aussies can win.
So McGrath and Shane Warne,
two greats of the game.
Enter stage left with a solitary aim.
To wrest back momentum
from their enemy 'the Pom'.
And make sure that forever their names will live on.
Stu Warren, Tring
Cheer up, Ocker! Just pack up the bongos,
Burst the inflatable kangaroos,
Silence the sound of beery drongos
Bellowing on their didgeridoos,
Whingeing of subs inside all the pubs
Down the Fulham Road to Putney Bridge;
No worries, mate, the sledging can wait,
Til after we've necked the grog in your fridge:
Cos Ricky, y'know, it don't mean a thing,
If you can't deliver reversible swing.
By Sunglasses Jon, from Sunny Mortlake
England, when will you end this waiting?
England, when will you make my father jump out of his chair by the radio in our kitchen in Wales?
England, when will you the win the match we played a thousand times as brothers in our backyard and always won?
England, can I dare to dream this time?
So, Vaughan
In the covers,
Strolling like a willow boned cat
Leaning into the wind under your wide-brimmed hat,
Bring us back our ashes.
By Louise Aylward, Xian, China
`Twas sunny, and the cricket coves
Did beer and bumble in the stands:
All twitchy were the Umpires,
And the commentators outgrabe.
"Beware the Kasprowicz, my son!
The balls that swing, the hands that catch!
Beware the Tait and Lee, and shun
The furious Glenn McGrath!"
He took his cricket bat in hand:
Long time the cover gap he sought -
So rested in the drinks break,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Glenn McGrath, with eyes of flame,
Came stamping down the Oval track,
And sledged him as he came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The cricket bat went snicker-snack!
He saw it early, and with his bat
He sent it whizzing back.
"And, hast thou won the Ashes, Fred?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
Vaughan chortled in his joy.
`Twas sunny, and the cricket coves
Did beer and bumble in the stands:
All twitchy were the Umpires,
And the commentators outgrabe.
After Lewis Carroll, James 'Silk' Davey, Leeds
A game I've never really known, it often took me far from home,
I didn't have to queue, or push, just sit beside a faithful Bush,
The lingo often passed me by, though every sound was such a joy,
I'm speaking of another time when teenage years were safely mine,
A magic, darkened winter's room, with summer scenes that outlawed gloom,
To me, it seems a sporting art to calm the mind, and race the heart.
By John Gleeson, Rearcross, Ireland
Their might has outlived their moustaches
For photos fade faster than fame
But if England recover the Ashes
I'll dye my pair green just the same.
For though Rod Marsh and Boonie and Mervyn
Could compete with the great Dr Grace,
I now want a baggy green woollen
Into which I can bury my face.
After Arlott, HTFB, Oxford
There's something familiar about all of this,
A sporting event that no-one dare miss.
New sporting heroes with the platform to shine,
Just as long as the weather stays fine.
Back page and front page you cannot escape,
Experts predicting another close scrape.
Cousins preparing to fight once again,
The young guns are rising, the old guard is slain.
The batsmen are ready to take to the crease,
Nothing less than a century please.
The bowlers are warmed up and ready for hurling,
With all this excitement is this the new curling ?
By Gary Southon, St Albans
Forlorn
Shane is Warne...and out
In England's grasp...
The embered Ashes
At last!
Steve Proud, Dunedin, New Zealand (relocated but always a Pom)
Land of hope and glory, Mother of the free -
As England claim the Ashes,
Who'd be an Aussie?
Joanna Kramer, London
The Aussie fans mourn, McGrath's ankle's torn,
It's simply not cricket - not the norm norm norm
Ponting looks forlorn, The batsmen can’t find form,
It's only still a contest 'cos of Warne Warne Warne
Does this herald a fresh dawn? Are new heroes being born?
It's our England, Freddie Flintoff, Michael Vaughan Vaughan Vaughan!
J Forman, London
It's the final day and they are still to be won,
Another thriller, the balance truly hung,
A line finely trod between villain and hero,
The difference between glory and zero.
Whatever the outcome a great summer we've had,
Watching bat, ball, bail and pad,
Runs galore, caught and missed catches,
Very soon we'll finally know who has won the Ashes.
Andy Dickinson, Solihull
This fervour mocks the hardy fans,
Who followed when these fancy dans,
Were all declaring "soccer" the new national sport,
(But only the non-spitting sort).
Still I won't complain a bit,
If Langer's head again we hit,
And if Buzz Lightyear never plays again,
Befuddled by the King of Spain.
I'll laugh if Buchanan gets the sack,
And if the Aussies lose the tiresome knack,
Of holding England in a trance,
With cod philosophy and arrogance.
Perhaps then they'll stop talking about the spirit of cricket, After Waugh and co did so much to wreck it
And I'll be able to watch the series in Pakistan,
Without being called a fair weather fan.
Geoff Handley, Maputo, Mozambique
The crowd file in and the ground fills up,
At last England might win the Cup,
The sub fielder is on.....
Now Ponting has gone!
Freddie and Co are within reach of the Ashes,
The Army go barmy as Strauss dives and catches
Anon, London
The time is here, the mission clear -
The series, within our grasp;
Our boys in white by Harry, how they'll fight! -
for the Ashes,
Will be ours at last!
Michael Gardner, Liphook, Hampshire
So, hello then, Glenn McGrath,
They say you are fit.
So does my friend Sally
Carol Nunn, Tunbridge Wells
An assassin's smile does not conceal
the ferocity of Freddie's zeal,
Balls of lightning from one end
Claps of thunder from 'tuther,
Freddie's teamplay smites Aussies from one ground to the other:
Our Freddie. Freddie Flintoff.
An Ode to Freddie, by Gregory Irgin, London
Let's hope that England win back the Ashes
In one of international cricket's most exciting clashes.
As Thursday dawns at the Oval, I would not like to be in the shoes
Of the Australian team, who have learned at the feet of the masters how to choke at the wrong moment and lose.
Whereas the England XI, who have made us cry so often in the past,
Are no longer the ones wearing the metaphorical Elastoplast.
So come on all our heroes, have a good night's kip and get ready.
Trescothick, Strauss and Bell, Vaughan, Pietersen, Jones and Freddie,
Prepare to slog the ball around but good.
While Harmy, Hoggy, the king of Spain and (probably) Collingwood,
Devise some fiendish tricks to beat the bat
And get the wickets clattering down with a brisk rat-a-tat.
But for Hayden and Langer, the Australian opening bats,
I hope your slumber is filled with nightmarish visions of being eaten alive by rats.
Jenny Booth, London
From the very first ball to the very last run,
Never has cricket been so much fun.
Whatever the score we musn't grumble
Finally the Aussies have learned to be humble.
David Rundle, Oxted
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.
We let you win the rugby,
But the urn is a must.
Andrew the Aussie, West Hampstead
To end the misery of decades past
When England's XI triumph at last
And grab the Ashes from the fire
The Aussies reign can now retire
Mick Whitehead, Annesley
Oh, Lord, if I must die today,
Please make it after close of play.
For this I know, if nothing more,
I will not go, without the score.
A Cricket Prayer by Sir John Major
Their might has outlived their moustaches.
For photos fade faster than fame
John Arlott, on browsing through the sepia archive at Lord's
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