[John Whitworth]

I have to admit this is not a whole lot like Hopkins, but I've got a bugle in and a blushing boy. Hopkins should have watched more cricket obviously.

Saturday at Lord's

List thou my lyre at Lord's, bring out the bugle.
Root-toot for Root, for Yorkshire blushing rose,
Dauntless in derring-do, of words more frugal,
A peerless poet in an age of prose.

Our champions chopped by fire-breathing Siddle,
Cook cooked, Trott trotted off, proud Pietersen
Laid low, our fount of batsmanship a piddle,
A phoenix rises like an orison.

Root-toot for Root, as Yorkshire's pride and joy
Outgraces Grace and trumps the ebullient Trumper.
Cometh the hour, cometh the beamish boy
Whose battering blade dismisses every bumper.

Most meritorious, glorious Galahad,
(Old men remember Hutton in his prime)
Helmet in hand, this lithe and lovely lad
Quits the uproarious field, untouched by time.

I've revised this to make it more Hopkinsy, though it still isn't very.

Saturday at Lord's

Sweet sweep the strings of Summer, blow the bugle.
Root-toot for Root, for Yorkshire blushing rose,
Dauntless in derring-do, of words more frugal,
Peerless a poet in sheer plods of prose.

Our champions chopped by fire-breathing Siddle,
Cook cooked, Trott trotted off, haught Pietersen
Laid low, our fount of batsmanship a piddle,
His phoenix rises like an orison.

Root-toot for Root, as Yorkshire's pride and joy
Outgraces Grace and trumps the ebullient Trumper.
Cometh the hour, cometh the beamish boy
Whose bright and battering blade beats every bumper.

Young chevalier, God's glorious Galahad,
(Old men remember Hutton in his prime.)
Helmet in hand, this lithe and lovely lad
Quits his uproarious field, untouched by time.