Testo Grantchester Fields

As I climbed Lynden Hill I came upon the cricket ground in evening's gilded hour, The sun like honef ran so I sought shade beneath the arms of a low embracing bower, The groundsman tipped his hat, bid me 'good day'. Like as wraiths they rime to walk upon the velvet green, to play the noble game, The groundsman tipped his hat, bid me 'good day'. The groundsman tipped his hat, bid me 'stay'. Old man watched from the pavillion reproached by ghosts of summers past and aching to be called, Racalling those who bowled with casual ease, whose honest track would clear the boundaries. A summons brought the outfield bowler, advised from every quarter as the batsman stalked his crease. So Bob was bowled in his last innings, he started for the pavillion, turned, and sadly waved goodbye. As blazered buys dais'd each to shake his hand their master asked "How does the storing stand ?" Then all too soon the stumps were gathered, The groundsman claimed his bicycle and set off home for