_The rivals, Cricket Ball and Football, like Menalcas and Damoetas,
defend their favourite Sports, and make their friend Punch (like
Palemon) judge of their performances._
_Football._ Ho! Hurry up and put yourself away!
September's here, and Cricket's had its day.
You and your Bat have had a wondrous boom,
Now for a manlier sport, and Me, make room!
_Cricket Ball._ A _manlier_ sport? Tell that to sordid Tykes!
The "brass," and not the game, is what he likes
Who kicks your swollen and unshapely form
Through snow and mud, in fog and frozen storm;
And in pursuit of silver pots and pelf,
Makes a dishevelled mudlark of himself;
Then calls it--Sport! O, there! don't talk to me.
_I_'m not a slave to sludge and L. S. D.
_Football._ Pooh! If I'm kicked you're spanked. The foot of GUNN
Hurts less than does his bat. Pray is it fun
To bide O'BRIEN'S buffet? Have you scored
After two hours--at Hastings--with big FORD?
GRACE thumps you for nine Centuries in one season,
And after _that_ you crow with little reason!
_Cricket Ball._ Oh, GRACE and GUNN lay on to me _in love_,
FORD'S "gentle tap," O'BRIEN'S "friendly shove"
Hurt not my feelings more than a slight slap
From rosy fingers hurts an amorous chap.
But you stand kicks _for halfpence_. Question it?
Well, just you read about the Football Split
And the two rival Unions!
_Football._ That's all fudge.
The North is of true Sport the truest judge!
How about GRACE'S Testimonial?
_Cricket Ball._ _Not_
A sample of the Hunting of the Pot,
But a free tribute to a sportsman prime,
Who plays the game right through, and laughs at Time.
But rowdyism and mere greed of gain
Will spoil the noblest sport. I speak with pain.
_Football._ You spheric Pharisee! Don't sniff and brag,
Go join the Bat in his green winter bag!
A hum-drum hibernation is your doom,
The winter season's mine, for me make room!
_Cricket Ball._ Alas! 'tis true! Retirement is my lot.
The bright green sward, blue skies, and sunshine hot,
September sees an end of. I rejoice
The Surrey Cricket Club has given its voice
Against the money-mania that would make
The Oval turf a frozen swampy lake,
Pounded by heavy-footed Football cracks,
Galloping "forwards," elephantine "backs."
It makes me shudder on my shelf to think
Of that green sward, smooth-surfaced as a rink
Where sturdy ABEL cut and drove amain,
And RICHARDSON sent "rippers" down like rain;
Where the white-flannel'd fielders sometimes flopped,
While saucy Surrey sparrows pecked and hopped,--
To think of it all trampled, pounded, ploughed,
By fierce footballers, whilst a furious crowd
Howled in a hideous ring.
_Football._ Oh, shut up, do!
The S. C. C.'s are an old-fashioned crew,
Who soon will find they are not up to date,
And they'll be sorry--when perhaps too late.
Football's a manly sport for Titan lads!
_Cricket Ball._ But spoiled by huckster cliques and noisy cads.
_Football._ Cricket is slow, quite stodgy now and then.
_Cricket Ball._ But 'tis a sport for friends and gentlemen.
_Palemon Punch._
In either sport such honest pleasure lies
That both must win, as each deserves, a prize.
The summer sport is each true Briton's care,
But Football's death would leave our winters bare
Of numerous joys. Damoetas sweetly sang
And clear the music of Menalcas rang;
"Rest equal happy both," in friendly strains
Palemon said to the Virgilian swains;
"Long live and prosper both," _Punch_ says to you;
But O beware the howling harpy crew
Who'd knock the "I" out of our good old Play
And make it all a matter of mere Pay!
The rowdies follow where the hucksters lead,
Football beware of ruffianly greed!
You're treading far too near that fatal trap;
Avoid it, or you'll suffer. _Verbum sap!_
You, cricket ball, to bounce be not a slave.
Let "championships" and "averages" have
Their proper place. Let love of Number One
Spoil not good sport, good fellowship, good fun.
In short, whether good luck or bad luck comes
Just "play the game," like gentlemen and chums!
So having given his verdict somewhat loth,
_Punch_ ends with wishing the best luck to both!
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THE PITY O' IT!"
"WELL, SIMPSON, HOW DO YOU LIKE THE HOT WEATHER?"
"CAN'T STAND IT, SIR! IT'S HAWFUL! AIN'T GOT NO STOMACH FOR MY
VICTUALS, SIR!"]
* * * * *
GOOSE AND GANDER.--A sapient Somebody (or Nobody) modestly
proposes that, in taking a poll for a Free Library, everybody who does
not take the trouble to register his vote at all shall be counted as if
he had voted _against_ the proposal! Well, what is sauce for the goose
is sauce for the gander. Suppose that all who don't take the trouble to
vote should be counted as voting _for_ the proposal. There's at least
as much to be said for that as for the opposite plan.
* * * * *