That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.

Cricket, however, has more in it than mere efficiency. There is something called the spirit of cricket, which cannot be defined.

But while I breathe Heaven's air and Heaven looks down on me, And smiles at my best meanings, I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.

And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.