When the day is don,e and the ball has spun in the umpires pocket away,
And all remains in the groundsman's pains for the rest of time and a day;
There'll be one mad dog and his master, pushing for four with the spin
On a dusty pitch, with two pounds six, of willow wood in the sun.

When an old cricketer leaves the crease, you never know whether he's gone;
If sometimes you're catching a fleeting glimpse of a twelfth man at Silly Mid-On;
And it could be Geoff, and it could be John, with a new ball sting in his tail;
And it could be me, and it could be thee, and it could be the sting in the ale, sting in the ale.

When an old cricketer leaves the crease, you never know whether he's gone;
If sometimes you're catching a fleeting glimpse of a twelfth man at Silly Mid-On;
And it could be Geoff, and it could be John, with a new ball sting in his tail;
And it could be me, and it could be thee, and it could be the sting in the ale, sting in the ale.

When the moment comes, and the gathering stands, and the clock turns back to reflect
On the years of grace, as those footsteps trace for the last time out of the act;
Well this way of life's recollection, the hallowed strip in the haz,
The fabled men, and the noonday sun, are much more than just yarns of their days.

When an old cricketer leaves the crease, you never know whether he's gone;
If sometimes you're catching a fleeting glimpse of a twelfth man at Silly Mid-On;
And it could be Geoff, and it could be John, with a new ball sting in his tail;
And it could be me, and it could be thee, and it could be the sting in the ale, sting in the ale.

When an old cricketer leaves the crease, you never know whether he's gone;
If sometimes you're catching a fleeting glimpse of a twelfth man at Silly Mid-On;
And it could be Geoff, and it could be John, with a new ball sting in his tail;
And it could be me, and it could be thee, and it could be the sting in the ale, sting in the ale.