When an Old Cricketer Leaves the Crease

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 the time and a day There'll be one mad dog and his master Pushing for four 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 The sting in the ale When an old cricketer leaves the crease Well 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 The sting in the ale When the moment comes 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 way of life's recollection The hallowed strip in the haze The fabled men and the noonday sun Are much more than just yarns of their days When an old cricketer leaves the crease Well 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 The sting in the ale When an old cricketer leaves the crease Well 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 me and it could be thee Silly mid-on