Red rose and white! A pleasant summer sight,

As a Midsummer Dream may well imagine it!

How different far from the wild wordy fight

'Twixt furious Somerset and fierce Plantaganet!

Bramhall Lane Ground presents a peacefuller scene

Than that once witnessed in the Temple Garden.

Here's war of wickets, on a sward as green

And as unreddened as the glades of Arden.

Ward, not hot Suffolk, fights for the Red Rose,

Jackson, not Vernon, battles for the White One.

True York v. Lancashire are still the foes,

Nor is the issue now at stake a slight one;

But whether Jackson be twice bowled by Mold,

Or twice Peel give young Albert his quietus,

The battle is as friendly as 'tis bold.

Paul, with his eighty-seven, helps defeat us,

But brave Lord Hawke, our Captain, makes his pile,

And there is comfort in the score of Wainwright.

If Sugg and Baker make the Red Rose smile,

Hirst his true "Yorkers" down the pitch will rain right.

Some holiday-makers seek the grassy down,

And some will bask by seashore, or on sunny cliff,

Give me to watch the fine straight bat of Brown,

The bail of Milligan, the catch of Tunnicliffe,

Dead level now are Lancashire and York,

The Red Rose and the White bear equal blossoms.

Now comes the tug of war! Now must we work,

Active as catamounts, and sly as 'possums.

But this we know—that at our noble game,

With Hawke the hearty, and with stout McLaren,

The White Rose shall not have to blush with shame,

Nor the Red Rose, through funk, blanch and grow barren!