Twice a week the winter thorough
Twice a week the winter thoroughHere stood I to keep the goal:Football then was fighting sorrowFor the young man's soul.
Now in May time to the wicketOut I march with bat and pad:See the son of grief at cricketTrying to be glad.
Try I will; no harm in trying:Wonder 'tis how little mirthKeeps the bones of man from lyingOn the bed of earth.
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