When Ivo goes back with the urn, the urn;
Studds, Steel, Read and Tylcote return, return.
The welkin will ring loud
The great crowd will feel proud
Seeing Barlow & Bates with the urn, the urn
And the rest coming home with the urn

the urn, the urn, the urn

I’ve added an extra line in italics since the rhythm doesn’t work with the verse all on its own. (A quick ECB-approved level one and five-eighths cricket poetry coaching session in basic poetic techniques – repetition:- Welkin is sky, turned into a bell, (not Belly) which of course needs to ring, hence the repetition of the urn, the urn to make the sound of a bell, redoubled with return, return – simple and effective, and clearly aiming to link onto verse five.)

If you want your very own Ashes poem all you have to do is take the version below and substitute in the gaps who you like for the names of these old players. I’m sure they won’t mind, in fact honoured that you’re thinking about them. I’d suggest using surnames rather than first or nicknames, since it ties into the original language, and also check that the rhythm still works, so that’s where nicknames come in – to shorten Collie for Collingwood, but lengthen Strauss to Straussie since he’s captain, like Ivo, and everyone can join in the extra line as a chorus, the urn, the urn, the urn!

When Straussie  stands proud with the urn, the urn;
               ,              ,                 and               return, return.
The welkin will ring loud
The great crowd will feel proud
Seeing                &              with the urn, the urn
And the rest coming home with the urn

the urn, the urn, the urn!

Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child
By by, lully lullay

O sisters too, how may we do
for to preserve this day
this poor youngling for whom we do sing
by by, lully lullay

Herod the king in his raging
charged he hath this day
His men of might in his own sight
all young children to slay

That woe is me, poor child for thee!
and ever mourn the day
For thy parting neither say nor sing
by by, lully lullay

anon, medieval plainsong

When this Ashes Test is over
No more joy or misery
Let’s shake hands with erstwhile strangers
We’ll cherish present company

No more pints of polite clapping
No more shouting out for more
Shake hands with those beside you
They’re your neighbours  from next door

Sung with great feeling and Welsh choralness
A modification of the lyrics of When This Lousy War is Over, from “Oh What A Lovely War”; Joan Littlewood, based on the original hymn by Joseph Scriven, What a friend we have in Jesus

Ashes

To the victor the spoils
To losers, desolation
Dark doors darken dark doors
Shuts out welkin light
Puts wood in hole, shafts
Of night shadows the clacked
Clappered tun of celebration
Wrings, wrings the pain and din
Until the black tattoo stops beating
Bleak timpani within each ear’s dismal drum
Before blood dangles ruby red from each lobe
A mute sign that you are dead.  It can’t hurt
anymore than this, that’s for sure
Which sets you out to win

David Fine

The Ballad of Sir Andrew Strauss

ALBION sits in doleful frown,
Drinking most of the time:
‘O whair O whair will I get a steely skipper
To sail this ship o’ mine.’

Up and spoke a bearded miller
Sat at the ECB,
’Sir Andrew Strauss is the best skipper
To sail against history.’

Albion quills broadest honour
To sign it for Angleland,
And duly messages Sir Andrew,
Doff’d caps, caps in hand.

The first line that Sir Andrew said
A calm ripple of delight
The next wave Sir Andrew read
turns ashen face bone white.

‘O what dark fates have done this deed,
This ill-deed done to me,
To send me out this time o’ year,
To skipper agin Eausea.’

‘Make haste, make haste, merry men all,
Our good ship sails the morn;
O say not say, my players dear,
I fear an Eausea storm.’

‘Late late yester’s day saw their team anew
Time as tide, their olden in their arms,
And I fear fear, my dear players
Shall succumb to succubus Eausea charms.’

O our hopes enobled were right loath’d
To scuff their heel high shoes,
But half o’er the play were play’d
Their baggy hats were sous’d.

O lang, lang may Eausea lads sit
Wi’ tinnies in their hand
Before they see Sir Andrew Strauss
Come a-sail to Angleland.

O lang, lang may these laddies stand,
gold roos dyed in their hair,
Waiting for their own dear lairds;
Who they’ll not see ne’er the mair.

Half o’er, half o’er to Australia,
‘Tis fully five bells deep,
And there resides good Sir Andrew Strauss
With the Eausea at his feet.

An early unpublished draft compilation by David Fine
Based on The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens (version Percy’s Reliques, 1765, I, 71: “given from two MS. copies, transmitted from Scotland.”  b. Herd’s Scots Songs, 1769, p. 243. http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/child/ch058.htm )

Kneel to no one, not least those who cannot kneel,
Their bended knee arising from regal labours
In might and main to honour king and country
against the mightiest warriors from other lands
in fair contest and proud sacrifice
through surgery to fight and fight on. England’s
braw champion’s task is nearly done,
the ashes won and lost, and nearly once again won.
Heed not tomorrow’s outcome, a brief regency,
Shoulder to shoulder shoulder broad duty.
Old monachs, (Lear, Duncan) dare not come back,
Not even as ghosts. Bless his test retirement,
for you have come of age, earned the right
in your crowning glory on the field of play
to stand in succession of greatness.
Proclaim this day from all pretenders,
The king is nearly dead, long live the king.

Australia 160 all out S C J Broad 5-37

thanks to Mark who helped suggest what became the final line in conversation during the action

Gone
in sixty nano-seconds
aim in mind before ball leaves bat
all done in one, out by yards,
victim dives after stumps splay
no recourse to redundant replay
dust stunned in shiv sharp speed
of broken glass stilled while braking
rods and cones alchemically fixed,
frozen forever in our retinas
suspended for life in vitreous humour
locked in basal memory forever
Katich twocks Trott.

Taken without owner’s consent,
No fluke or accident,
The practiced genie of anticipation,
How good are these Australians?

I J L Trott runout (S M Katich) 41

the crack is back.
out in the paddock steers sense
danger. A simple few step run
as short as Alan Davidson
but a bloody sight more quick,
left arm, right leg taut as a bow
held by Ursain Bolt at the gun,
no chance to reckon direction
before the whip comes over
Crack! Steers cower at its lash,
unable to go forward or back,
lost in the hurled midst
of the dark stockman’s attack
lashed between arrival and departure
through the paddock gates
till they too crack into failure.
Crack! The crack is back,
out in the paddock steers sense danger
Crack! The go-to’ll do ‘em agin.

Our Freddie, the heart of our eleven
Hallowed be thy knees.
Give us your all from test to test
While inbetween giving them each a rest.
Cortisone injection those Australians
From openers to tail-enders
But do not do yourself a mischief
As you would do unto others.
We forgive you your pedalos
As you would forgive us ours.
All square at your final test
Lead us not into temptation,
Premature celebration or commiseration,
Just strive for supreme victory
Not won for three-quarters of a century
At Lord’s, then as at The Oval
For thine is the yorker, the five-for and their bended knee
For ever and ever

Our Urn

Headingley Carnegie

In the middle of a stand batsmen discard their creases
to parley twixt jousts, their yeomen chosen duties.
Shuffle pads, box, gloves, helmets, fear and bravery;
lean on pikestaffs to dismiss failure’s haunted taunting,
to discuss the matter at hand, state of play,
how to withhold each wicket whilst withering their enemies’
intent, who may snide cunning cussword cudgels in passing,
as would they, were their innings turned inside out in passing.
Twinned and pinned before overs swap creases, they pass back
to tighten their mark. Their pitch splits again in a middle of a stand,
each readied to face loneliness unyielding.

In the middle of a stand neighbours jowl neighbours:
no loneliness here. Pass comment, beer, jests, victuals, perhaps favour.
Scuffle papers, crosswords, scorecards, programmes, radio-tuners,
cameras, bets, runners and riders (with riders on runners) before –
Roar, Yell, Clap, Cheers, Groan, Moan, Gasp, Ooooo and murmur
at the closeness of it all. Till closeness ends and closure comes,
to stem scored life seen from the very midst of every stand.

Deeds empty games. The ends of each stand leave first,
leaving the last no choice how to enter history. Gainsay no odds,
in each stand at Headingley are memories too many
to bury or resurrect except in their making. Play!