Ashes Sledging Quotes

Sitting in stunned silence, we remembered our dead. So many dead, So many maimed. So many bright futures consigned to the ashes of the past. So many dreams lost in the madness that had engulfed us. Except for a few widely scattered shouts of joy, the survivors of the abyss sat hollow-eyed and silent, trying to comprehend a world without war.

Untamo again reflected, "How can we o'ercome the infant, That destruction come upon him, And that death may overtake him?" Then he bade his servants gather First a large supply of birch-trees, Pine-trees with their hundred needles, Trees from which the pitch was oozing, For the burning of the infant, And for Kullervo's destruction. So they gathered and collected First a large supply of birch-trees, Pine-trees with their hundred needles, Trees from which the pitch was oozing, And of bark a thousand sledgefuls, Ash-trees, long a hundred fathoms. Fire beneath the wood they kindled, And the pyre began to crackle, And the boy they cast upon it, 'Mid the glowing fire they cast him. Burned the fire a day, a second, Burning likewise on the third day, When they went to look about them. Knee-deep sat the boy in ashes, In the embers to his elbows. In his hand he held the coal-rake, And was stirring up the fire, And he raked the coals together. Not a hair was singed upon him, Not a lock was even tangled. Then did Untamo grow angry. "Where then can I place the infant, That we bring him to destruction, And that death may overtake him?" So upon a tree they hanged him, Strung him up upon an oak-tree. Two nights and a third passed over, And upon the dawn thereafter, Untamo again reflected: "Time it is to look around us, Whether Kullervo has fallen, Or is dead upon the gallows." Then he sent a servant forward, Back he came, and thus reported: "Kullervo not yet has perished, Nor has died upon the gallows. Pictures on the tree he's carving, In his hands he holds a graver. All the tree is filled with pictures, All the oak-tree filled with carvings!

Although sledging was not considered gentlemanly at the time and seemed, temporarily perhaps, to die out after WG’s retirement from first class cricket in 1908, there had always been an undercurrent of hostility between the English and Australian players. Lord Harris’s 1878-79 tour to Australia set the trend for many of the ill-tempered Ashes clashes to follow, although the urn itself was not at stake. The home side hammered the English in the first Test in Melbourne, with the tourists’ captain so disappointed in his own performance that he hurled his bat across the pavilion. The bad feelings rolled over to the Sydney Test, and when Australian umpire George Coulthard adjudged local hero Billy Murdoch run out, two thousand spectators invaded the pitch and began attacking the English players. Lord Harris was beaten with a whip, Albert Hornby had his shirt ripped off and six English players were forced to defend themselves with stumps. In retaliation, many English clubs refused to play the touring Australians when they visited the following year.

Sitting in stunned silence, we remembered our dead. So many dead. So many maimed. So many bright futures consigned to the ashes of the past. So many dreams lost in the madness that had engulfed us. Except for a few widely scattered shouts of joy, the survivors of the abyss sat hollow-eyed and silent, trying to comprehend a world without war.