A 19th century poem:
Jackson's pace is very fearful ; Willsher's hand is very high ;
William Caffyn has good judgment, and an admirable eye ;
Jemmy Grundy's cool and clever, almost always on the spot ;
Tinley's slows are often telling, though they sometimes catch it hot ;
But however good their trundling-pitch or pace, or break, or spin -
Still the monarch of all bowlers, to my mind, was Alfred Mynn !
Richard Daft is cool and cautious, with his safe and graceful play !
If George Griffith gets a loose one, he can send it far away ;
You may bowl your best at Hayward, and whatever style you try,
Will be vanquished by the master's hand and certain eye ;
But whatever fame and glory these and other bats may win,
Still the monarch of hard hitters, to my mind, was Alfred Mynn !
You may praise the pluck of Burbidge, as he plays an up-hill match ;
You may thunder cheers to Miller for a wondrous running catch ;
You may join with me in wishing that the Oval, once again,
Shall resound hearty plaudits to the praise of Mr. Lane ;
But the Gentlemen of England the match will hardly win,
Till they find another bowler such, as glorious Alfred Mynn !
When the great old Kent Eleven, full of pluck and hope began -
The grand battle with All-England, single-handed, man to man,
How the hop-men watched their hero, massive, muscular and tall,
As he mingled with the players, like a king amongst them all ;
'Till to some old Kent enthusiasts it would almost seem a sin
To doubt their Country's triumph when led on by Alfred Mynn.
Though Sir Frederick and "The Veteran'' bowled straight, and sure, and well ;
Though Box behind the wicket only Lockyer can excel ;
Though Jemmy Dean as long-stop would but seldom grant a bye ;
Though no novices in batting were George Parr and Joseph Guy ;
Said the fine old Kentish farmers, with a fine old Kentish grin,
" Why, tthere ain't a man among 'em as can match our Alfred Mynn!''
And whatever was the issue of the frank and friendly fray
(Aye, and often has his bowling turned the fortune of the day !)
Still the Kentish men fought bravely, never losing hope nor heart,
Every man of the Eleven glad and proud to play his part ;
And with five such mighty cricketers, 'twas but natural to win-
As Felix, Wenham, Hillyer, Fuller Pilch, and Alfred Mynn!
With his tall and stately presence, with his nobly moulded form,
His broad hand 'twas over open !-his brave heart 'twas ever warm !-
All were proud of him, all loved him ! ' . . . As the changing seasons pass ;
As our Champion lies a-sleeping underneath the Kentish grass ;
Proudly, sadly we will name him-to forget him were a sin ;
Lightly lie the turf upon thee, kind and manly Alfred Mynn !