When the day is done, and the ball has spun
 In the umpire's pocket away,
 And all remains, in the groundsman's pains,
 For the rest of time and a day.
 There'll be one mad dog and his master, 
pushing for 4 with the spin.
 On a dusty pitch, with two pounds six, 
of willow wood in the sun.

 When an old cricketer leaves the crease, 
you never know whether he's gone,
 If sometimes you're catching a fleeting glimpse, 
of a twelfth man at silly mid-on.
 And it could be Geoff, and it could be John,
 With a new ball sting in his tail.
 And it could be me, and it could be thee,
 And it could be the sting in the ale.........
sting in the ale.

 When the [bad word]  and the gathering stands,
 And the clock turns back to reflect,
 On the years of grace, as those footsteps trace,
 For the last time out of the act.
 Well this ways of life's recollection
 The hallowed strip in the haze,
 The fabled men, and the moonday sun,
 Are much more than just yarns of their days...