The Stick We Used at Stoolball (Rod)

Lyrics

Right then! Gather 'round the green.
The sun's past its peak.
Stools are set. The pitch is clean.
Let's see what the evening brings.

They call it a bat in the modern game.
A fancy, shaped bit of willow.
But this here, this is the old flame.
Three feet of Sussex ash, straight and true.
No padding, no grip, just the grain in your palm.
The stool's the target, a hundred paces out.
Leather ball, stitched with calm.
This is what the game's about.

And I take my stance, and I swing the rod!
A clean, flat strike, by the grace of God!
You hear that sound across the field?
That's the bowler's art, revealed.
Just me and the stick and the ball in the air.
The rod! The rod! Nothing can compare.

The maids of the village, they're the runners.
Quick on their feet, laughing in the sun.
Reverend Goss watches, says we're all sinners.
But he smiles when a good run is won.
They say it's a courtship, this old game.
A chance to show your strength and your aim.
Well, I'm aiming for the stool, just the same.
And to hear them shout my name.

And I take my stance, and I swing the rod!
A clean, flat strike, by the grace of God!
You hear that sound across the field?
That's the bowler's art, revealed.
Just me and the stick and the ball in the air.
The rod! The rod! Nothing can compare.

It's not like fencing, with its delicate thrust.
Not like rowing, all rhythm and trust.
This is simpler. More honest.
Just a piece of wood against the world's test.
The weight of it in your hand... solid.
It knows the way to the target.

So I take my stance, and I swing the rod!
A clean, flat strike, by the grace of God!
You hear that sound across the field?
That's the bowler's art, revealed.
Just me and the stick and the ball in the air.
The rod! The rod! Nothing can compare.

Last bowl of the evening.
The light is turning gold.
There it is. The story's told.
Now, who's for an ale?
My arm's earned it.