To The Australian Eleven
You have bearded the lion in his den,
You have singed the original cricket
Upon his own hearth, and beaten his men
On a genuine English wicket;
And so the Australian kangaroo
Has a right good right to be proud of you.
That you’ve had your even share of the luck
We’ll allow, argumenti gratia,
But you won the great match by downright pluck,
And accordingly Australasia
Accords such a welcome to her Eleven
As for peaceful triumph never was given.
Let us pray that if ever Fate commands
Us to step into the arena,
With foils without buttons on, hearts and hands
Be forthcoming without subpoena
To uphold the name of the kangaroo
As the Australian Eleven do.
May we have a Massie as bold and quick
In our van to dismay the foeman,
A leader like Murdoch to strike or stick,
And yield, like our Murdoch, to no man;
And another Horan to lay about him
Like Tommy, however the for may “scout” him.
And no lack of “Palmers” if in extremis,
Or of Boyles to plague the Egyptians,
Or Garretts to fly to if pressed the team is;
Or of men to take all descriptions
Of balls which may come at them, quite as coolly
As Blackham, who even out-Pooley’s Pooley.
May we have a Banner-man stern and staunch
In stonewalling as little Sydney,
And a giant, his thunderbolt to launch
O’er the field, just of Bonner’s kidney;
And a dauntless Mac, to strike like a man
When our men are falling fast in the van;
And all-around men such as Giffen and Jones,
And a “demon” to reinforce us
In case we should be over-matched for once
And the foe beginning to course us,
To come as Spoff like an angel from heaven
To help us to beat the English Eleven.
To speak in plain English, we pray for this,
That if in the struggles before us
The tempest of warfare which ravages
The Old World no longer blows o’er us,
We may show the same skill and dash and pluck,
And if we do this we may laugh at luck.
poem by Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen
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Related quotes
Eleven
ELEVEN
Eleven, eleven, eleven years old,
intrepid, courageous, becomingly bold,
awaiting the whistle to aim at the goal,
youth victory snatches to go for the gold.
Eleven in yellow, eleven in blue,
first warm up, then face out, they know what to do,
team practice their axis extended, each soul
feels ready, steels steady, heart heady, on cue.
Eleven enthusiasts, courage extolled,
engage without rage on the field that has told
long tales of hopes met or defeats swallowed whole,
on one ball all focus as onwards its rolled.
Eleven, eleven, well matched, tackle through,
a game which enflames passions partisan, true,
team work all important as each knows the role
to play so the day stays as record all view
Rupert Kensho Robin Le Saux written Chateaugiron 23 October 2006
robi03_1457_robi03_0000 XXX_MXX
Eleven poem © Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Duck and the Kangaroo
Said the Duck to the Kangaroo,
'Good gracious! how you hop!
Over the fields and the water too,
As if you never would stop!
My life is a bore in this nasty pond,
And I long to go out in the world beyond!
I wish I could hop like you!'
Said the Duck to the Kangaroo.
'Please give me a ride on your back!'
Said the Duck to the Kangaroo.
'I would sit quite still, and say nothing but 'Quack',
The whole of the long day through!
And we'd go to the Dee, and the Jelly Bo Lee,
Over the land, and over the sea;
Please take me a ride! O do!'
Said the Duck to the Kangaroo.
Said the Kangaroo to the Duck,
'This requires some little reflection;
Perhaps on the whole it might bring me luck,
And there seems but one objection,
Which is, if you'll let me speak so bold,
Your feet are unpleasantly wet and cold,
And would probably give me the roo-
Matiz!' said the Kangaroo.
Said the Duck, 'As I sat on the rocks,
I have thought over that completely,
And I bought four pairs of worsted socks
Which fit my web-feet neatly.
And to keep out the cold I've bought a cloak,
And every day a cigar I'll smoke,
All to follow my own dear true
Love of a Kangaroo!'
Said the Kangaroo, 'I'm ready!
'All in the moonlight pale;
'But to balance me well, dear Duck, sit steady!
'And quite at the end of my tail!'
So away they went with a hop and a bound,
And they hopped the whole world three times round;
And who so happy - O who,
As the Duck and the Kangaroo?
poem by Edward Lear
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The Luck Of The Irish
Ok, one, two, three, one two, three
If you had the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead.
A thousand years of torture and hunger,
Drove the people away from their land.
A land full of beauty and wonder
Was raped by the british brigands!
Goddamned!
Goddamned!
If you could keep voices like flowers,
There's be shamrock all over the world.
If you could drink dreams like irish streams,
Then the world would be as high as the mountain of morn.
In the 'pool they told us the story
How the english divided the land.
Of the pain and the death and the glory
And the poets of auld eireland.
If we could make chains with the morning dew,
The world would be like galway bay.
Let's walk over rainbows like leprechauns,
The world would be one big blarney stone.
Why the hell are the english there anyway?
As they kill with god on their side!
Blame it all on the kids and the i.r.a.
As the bastards commit genocide!
Aye! aye!
Genocide!
Okay!
You should have the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead.
One more time!
You should have the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead,
Hey, yes, you'd wish you were english instead.
- "thank you!
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cricket World-Cup’99 (Indian Style)
The Carnival of World Cricket
Is off to a start this May;
The seventh time, the world teams clash,
For glory, seeking their way!
All will be o’er in six weeks ’time;
Could India pull off a win?
Time will decide if Azhar’s boys,
Can stun the world once again.
No more Cricket’s an English game!
It’s love has caught all men;
The fever is on; game has begun;
The testing ground- England;
The Indian squad has gone ahead,
To get acclimatized;
Eleven kilos is the Cup’s weight!
Anyone gets enticed.
Few hundred pounds
Is the cost of the Cup;
Green light is on; the end will come;
Non one has yet given up!
A huge money-prize is at stake;
And Cricket-lovers are gay!
Glued to their T.V sets all stay;
The young and old, this May.
Not all can win laurels, acclaim;
O Indians, go proclaim;
Thy uniqueness and love of the game,
‘tis a worthy cause and name!
Weather and pressures could decide,
The pitch as well, the game;
With some effort and some Dame Luck,
It is anyone’s game;
Do your job as well as you can,
And pray good things happen;
The LORD decides the Game at Lords!
The Game is much open!
poem by John Celes
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An English Girl
A wonderful joy our eyes to bless,
In her magnificent comeliness,
Is an English girl of eleven stone two,
And five foot ten in her dancing shoe!
She follows the hounds, and on she pounds -
The "field" tails off and the muffs diminish -
Over the hedges and brooks she bounds -
Straight as a crow, from find to finish.
At cricket, her kin will lose or win -
She and her maids, on grass and clover,
Eleven maids out - eleven maids in -
(And perhaps an occasional "maiden over").
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There's no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!
With a ten-mile spin she stretches her limbs,
She golfs, she punts, she rows, she swims -
She plays, she sings, she dances, too,
From ten or eleven till all is blue!
At ball or drum, till small hours come
(Chaperon's fan conceals her yawning),
She'll waltz away like a teetotum,
And never go home till daylight's dawning.
Lawn tennis may share her favours fair -
Her eyes a-dance and her cheeks a-glowing -
Down comes her hair, but what does she care?
It's all her own and it's worth the showing!
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There's no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!
Her soul is sweet as the ocean air,
For prudery knows no haven there;
To find mock-modesty, please apply
To the conscious blush and the downcast eye.
Rich in the things contentment brings,
In every pure enjoyment wealthy,
Blithe as a beautiful bird she sings,
For body and mind are hale and healthy.
Her eyes they thrill with right goodwill -
Her heart is light as a floating feather -
As pure and bright as the mountain rill
That leaps and laughs in the Highland heather!
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There's no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Mampi: A Girl Of 11
Pranab k c
15/07/2011
Father is blind of one eye
only the elder brother
going to lose his kidney
Mampi the girl of eleven
feels poverty silently
She can't do anything to share
She can't learn her lesson well
Mampi the girl of eleven
feels poverty silently
She dreams to share her family
She dreams to fight a lot
Mampi the girl of eleven
feels poverty silently
One morning noise everywhere
Mampi sleeps noiseless
Mampi a girl of eleven
committed suicide
Two days later
family found a suicide note
broken words of Mampi's hand
give my kidney to my brother
give my eye to my father
I die because I learnt
man can share body-parts
with others after death'
Mampi the girl of eleven years
felt poverty silently
poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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To Mary Ruefle, poet
and since you're an
American Poet or
a poet writing in English
or however you might put this
in a cv which you'll surely
never need being unique
and therefore beyond all
job descriptions except poet
since you're, well, those things or
that thing
you may never have seen
a kangaroo (and in a zoo
they can't hop..)
but if you do you'll recognise it
when I say it - your mind
is metaphorically, and no-one
handles metaphors like you do may I say,
like a kangaroo - huge hops
off into the horizon of thought
with what in marsupial body-language
may be bounding, boundless
joy
a kangaroo which might in the world
of your poems which I can't hope
to imitate but I'll have a go,
be carrying a baby roo in its pouch with
its head sticking out
and a backward glance towards you
who one day will return grown-up
with a crumpled poem
in its own pouch
addressed to Mary Ruefle
mentioning in passing
immortality
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Eleven today
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Today you're eleven
That's nine add on two.
Now ten is behind you
And twelve is to come
When riding your bike
Don't fall on your bum.
A six and a five
Make eleven as well
Your maths are so good
This I don't need to tell.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Legs are eleven
But you've only TWO!
Eleven is better
Than ten any day
That's what I think
And I'm going to say:
'Roses are red
Violets are blue,
Eleven is lovely
And so too are you.'
Written Sept 1994
poem by John Carter Brown
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What Is Needed Most Right Now
'That number multiplied by itself
Is no further than the previous number
Added to it!
5x5=25
6x6=36
Five plus six is eleven, right?
Add eleven onto 25 and you have 6x6!
Or subtract eleven from 36 and you will have 25! '
Why isn't mathematics taught that way?
In our schools?
'It would start an avalanche of thinkers...
And what is needed most right now,
Is a supply of more gullible people!
And 'that' we seem to be losing ground on.
That is becoming low in supply...
And ignorance spreads like wild fire!
Why?
We wonder.
WHO is subduing the process of thought?
They are 'not' doing a good job at that at all!
'Thinking Stinks'
And that is the message we want to send!
Critical thinking is not in demand.
We must create fresh beliefs
Before we lose the land! '
Good luck...
You lost me with this one!
Wake me up for recess!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Luck Of The Irish
If you had the luck of the irish
Youd be sorry and wish you were dead
You should have the luck of the irish
And youd wish you was english instead!
A thousand years of torture and hunger
Drove the people away from their land
A land full of beauty and wonder
Was raped by the british brigands! goddamn! goddamn!
If you could keep voices like flowers
Thered be shamrock all over the world
If you could drink dreams like irish streams
Then the world would be high as the mountain of morn
In the pool they told us the story
How the english divided the land
Of the pain, the death and the glory
And the poets of auld eireland
If we could make chains with the morning dew
The world would be like galway bay
Lets walk over rainbows like leprechauns
The world would be one big blarney stone
Why the hell are the english there anyway?
As they kill with God on their side
Blame it all on the kids the ira
As the bastards commit genocide! aye! aye! genocide!
If you had the luck of the irish
Youd be sorry and wish you was dead
You should have the luck of the irish
And youd wish you was english instead!
Yes youd wish you was english instead!
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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English Grass
Come, horsemen all, from every field
And taste this rare delight,
And see what English pastures yield
To those whose hearts beat right!
Come, haste and quaff the stirrup-cup!
Turn down the empty glass!
The horn is blown, the hunt is up,
And here's our English grass!
And here are foxes swift to find
And fences strong to break,
And here are doubles steep and blind
That try the best to take,
And dappled hounds to keep in sight
And rivals you must pass
Before the long December night
Enshrouds the English grass!
And think it not a lightsome thing
Or feat to wake your scorn
To follow where the Pytchley swing
Or lead them with the Quorn ;
For men have hacked the mulga trail
And packed the mountain pass,
Yet found the boldest heart may fail
To ride the English grass.
The meadows stretch from stream to stream,
Close-bitten, firm, and sound;
No stubble stands, no plough man's team
Rips up the ravaged ground;
But level far as eye can see
Like smooth green-tinted glass,
A battle-ground for bravery,
Is spread the English grass.
Though thorns be thick, though binders lace,
Though stout be stile and rail,
Though nought but blood can live the pace,
And nought but pluck prevail,
The call's to all, the field is fair
To every creed and class;
So draw your girths, all ye who dare,
And ride the English grass!
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Well, I'm half Australian, half English and I live in London. That is the only reason I came upon this story. My Australian mother, Meredith Hooper, was invited in late 2007 by some Australian friends to make up a token Australian audience in a tiny fringe theater play reading of an unproduced, unrehearsed play called 'The King's Speech.'
quote by Tom Hooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The secret is to work less as individuals and more as a team. As a coach, I play not my eleven best, but my best eleven.
quote by Knute Rockne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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yes, what if God does not speak english at all?
you were not born yesterday
and probably heard it before
that if your God does not speak english
then he must not be God
of course, something arrogant
hangs in the air
of this effortless superiority that
'englishers'
'english-plongplangs'
clai m, which, of course, we
always oppose and dub
as prettry dumb silly
but anyhow, yes, we are asked again
what if?
what if, this God, does not really speak English?
well, of course, he is still God
and he must not have considered the english language
that important
and i agree, even if i speak it,
i still have this language
of my soul,
albeit, in english, for you,
who does not speak my own language,
yes, of course, for you to perhaps
understand,
but i like it though, this thought
that God does not speak
the english language, lest, he may sound
so englishly, oh well,
arrogant.....
dear God
do you really...not speak english?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Language That The Poor Wants To Speak
do you speak good English?
do you take pride in it and then use it to impress others
and swindle them
into a belief that they are inferior?
they have feelings too
of humiliation
which even in such a sad state
wish that their humiliation
speak good English still
they always think that English will give them
a good job
a better standing in the society
a flare of fashionable tongue
you make them cry
but still they want to speak that cry in English too
foolish!
but can you blame them?
you who hold that power and might
you who have taken all what they once had
and made them
worse within
themselves
despite which,
they still want to be like you
to speak like you
a god
how sad!
you have never known the language of love
the grammar of generosity
the syntax of sympathy
that language that good English
sometimes has forgotten
to utter
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The English, the plain English, of the politest address of a gentleman to a lady is, I am now, dear Madam, your humble servant: Pray be so good as to let me be your Lord and Master.
quote by Samuel Richardson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eleven minutes. The world revolved around something that only took eleven minutes.
Paulo Coelho in Eleven Minutes (2003), translated by Margaret Jull Costa
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Let Us All Prayfor Peace and Malala's Relief
Malala still in teen
Turned out to be a queen
With her strong desire and keen
To make a religious fanaticism clean
Her movement for education
Of women of a particular formation
Made the world think of reformation
But stood helpless with confrontation
At a tender age of eleven
She made her presence felt even in heaven
By her blog on education for women
Her thoughtfulness did many hearten
Effortlessly she won accolades for peace
Dreaming a world with no one to pierce
The coexistence of human beings on religious base
And help them live and love each other in one piece
She did meet most powerful men of the world
To further her cause for a release from religious fold
She was assured by all as she is mentally strong and bold
She succeeded in getting back her school and household
However, religious fanaticism is strong and stout
That managed to get her twice shot
And she is struggling to survive in an intensive care slot
Hopefully to come back to fight this dreadful fanatic plot
Let us all pray for her life
Let us all pray for a world with no religious strife
Let us all pray for wisdom among those who strike on religious belief
Let us all pray all gods we all know for peace and Malala's relief
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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12 Roses I Need To Say
I grab a rose that is number one
To show you that it is for fun
To have a girl that you can always have fun with
Not only someone to love but a friend also
To hang out and laugh
One is for fun
I grab a rose that is number two
To show you that it is so true
True love that is
True everything and much more
Nothing but true happiness
Two is for true
I grab a rose that is number three
To show you that it is for me
What you did to me
To show me I can smile
To make my heart beat again
Three is for me
I grab a rose that is number four
To show you that it is for more
Everyday the feelings don’t stop
More good things come every time we see each other
Everyday I love you more and more
Four is for more
I grab a rose that is number five
To show you it is for alive
I feel alive again
I do not spend my days being down
I spend them thinking of you
Five is for alive
I grab a rose that is number six
To show you that it is for fix
No matter what happens
We can fix it because our love
Is stronger then anger
Six is for fix
I grab a rose that is number seven
To show you that it is for heaven
You are like an angel from heaven
You make my world feel like heaven
You mean everything to me
Seven is for heaven
I grab a rose that is number eight
To show you that it is for date
The day I first laid eyes on you
The date I will not forget
The day my face smiled
Eight is for date
I grab a rose that is number nine
To show you that it is for shine
You shine in everyway
When you smile my day is happy
When you hold me I am at ease
Nine is for shine
I grab a rose that is number ten
To show you that it is for when
Like I am happy WHEN I hold you
I am happy WHEN I miss you
When I miss you I can’t wait WHEN I see you next
Ten is for when
I grab a rose that is number eleven
To show you that it is for seven
Seven days a week
I will work for it till the future comes
When I can see you every one of these days
Eleven is for seven
I grab a rose that is number twelve
To show you that it is for…you know what?
poem by Paul Celano
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