| And how he used to thrill the crowd
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| The ready eye with bat and ball
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| The village fighter, heavy browed
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| The Englishman who had it all
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| A mighty shoulder to the wheel
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| To join in battle with the best
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| The iron arm, the will of steel
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| And heart of oak to mourn the rest
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| A power harnessed to the game
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| Once yoked and tempered fades away
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| The willing arm, the steady aim
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| The youth and fire that won the day
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| As twilight shadows dim the field
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| The ageing fighter stands bereft
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| With just the will to never yield
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| And heart of oak to mourn what’s left |