Twice a Week the Winter Thorough

Twice a week the winter thorough


Here stood I to keep the goal:


Football then was fighting sorrow


For the young man's soul.





Now in Maytime to the wicket


Out I march with bat and pad:


See the son of grief at cricket


Trying to be glad.





Try I will; no harm in trying:


Wonder 'tis how little mirth


Keeps the bones of man from lying


On the bed of earth.