(_A Sheffield Cricket Song, by a True "Tyke."_)
["The fifty-fifth contest on the cricket field between the
rival counties of Yorkshire and Lancashire ended yesterday
(June 5) in a victory for the representatives of the Red
Rose by 145 runs, and the record now reads--Yorkshire won 23,
Lancashire won 23, and 9 drawn."--_The Leeds Mercury._]
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!
* * * * *
HIS NEW TITLE.--Dr. GRACE, C.B. ("Companion of the Bat").
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[Illustration: "DEEDS-NOT WORDS!"
JOHN BULL. "LOOK HERE,--WE'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR PALAVER! ARE YOU
GOING TO LET THE GIRL GO, OR HAVE WE GOT TO MAKE YOU?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Ragged Urchin_ (_who has just picked up very short
and dirty end of a Cigarette_). "HI, BILLY! LOOK 'ERE! SEE WHAT YOU'VE
MISSED!"]
* * * * *
'ARRY AND THE BATTERSEA PARK LADY CYCLISTS.
DEAR CHARLIE,--You know I'm a "biker."
I told yer a good bit ago
'Ow I learnt to cavort on the cycle; and now,
from Land's End to Soho,
There isn't a scorchinger Scorcher than
'ARRY, when fair on the spin.
Some _might_ do me for pace, but for style,
and for skylark, I'd jest about win.
LIL JOHNSON--you know little LIL with the
copper-wire fringe and rum lisp!
'Er as flower-mounts Clerkenwell way, an'
wos donah to young IKY CRISP!
She's blue sancho on learnin' to "bike," so I
took 'er to Battersea Park,
As I'd 'eard wos _the_ pitch for a spry lydy
cyclist as longed for a lark.
Larks, CHARLIE! It's spruce, and no
pickles! You know I fly cool without fidge,
But I wosn't prepared for the toppers as
treddle it nigh Chelsea Bridge.
No slow Surrey-siders, my pippin, but smart
bits o' frock from Mayfair;
It took _me_ aback for a jiff, tho' of course
I wos speedy all there.
"Lor, 'AWWEE!" lisped LIL, "thith _ith_
thplendid! But 'adn't _we_ better sthand by?
Thee 'ow thpiffing they thpinth, thoth sthwell
lydith! No,'AWWEE, I don't _like_ ter twy.
Fanthy me in my cotton pwint wobbling
among thuch A-wonnerth ath thoth!
Look at 'er in the kniekerth and gaiterth, and
thpot t'otherth Balbriggan hoth!"
Poor LIL! She's no clarss, not comparative.
Ain't got no savvy, yer see;
And carn't 'old 'er own among quolity, not
with a flyer like me.
Don't like to be done, _I_ don't CHARLIE; and
so I sez "Jest as yer like.
Ony, if _I_ meant biking, in Battersea, dash it
old girl, _I_ should _bike_!"
"Oh, 'AWWEE," sez she, "you're a 'ot 'un!
But let uth look on, dear, _thith_ go;
Yer thee I carn't balanth, or pedal. I don't
want ter myke _you_ no show."
"All right," I sez, 'orty an' airy. But _ontry
noo_, CHARLIE, old pal,
When I stocked up them beauties on bikes, I
wos most arf ashymed o' _my_ gal.
One young piece in grey knicks and cream
cloth, and a sort of soft tile called a _toke_,
Took my fancy perdigious, dear boy. I'd
ha' blued arf-a-bull to 'ave spoke,
But a stiff-bristled swell in a dog-cart 'ad got
a sharp eye upon _'er_;
And _I_ couldn't ha' done the perlite without
raising a bit of a stir.
If I could ha' got rid o' LIL, I'd ha' mounted
my wheel, and wired in,
Balloon-tyred smart safety, old man! _I_'d
ha' showed Miss GREY KNICKS 'ow to spin.
One tasty young thing wos in tears, 'cos the
bike she'd bespoke wosn't there,
I hoffered 'er mine, but the arnser I got wos
a freeze-me-stiff stare.
"Thtuck-up cat, my dear 'AWWEE!" sez LIL.
"Well," sez I, "she _may_ be a Princess,
As a lot o' them hexercise here. Lydy B.
and a young Marcherness
Do paternise Battersea Park on a bike;
leastways so I've bin told;
And the breakfusts and five-o'clock teas give
by dooks is a sight to behold."
"Garn, 'AWWEE," snigs LIL, "you're a
kiddin'. But, thithorth! it ith a rum thing.
To thee Batterthea Park, ath wath onth all
kid-cwicket and kith-in-the ring,
Now the pet-pitch of thwell lydy thyclists!"
"It shows yer," I sez, "'ow things move.
From hansoms and bus-tops to bikes! Oh,
the lydies _must_ keep on the shove.
"They borrow their barnies from _hus_, arter all,
LIL. Toffs want a new lark,
So they straddle the bike _ah lah_ Brixton, and
tumble to Battersea Park.
'Divideds' and 'Knickers,' my dysy, are
sniffed at out Hislington way,
But when countesses mount 'em at Chelsea,
they're trotty and puffeck O K!"
World shifts it, old man, that's a moral!
We'll soon 'ave some duchess, on wheels,
A-cuttin' all records, and showing young
ZIMMY a clean pair of 'eels.
Hadvanced Women? Jimminy-Whizz! With
the spars and the sails they now carry
They'll race us all round, pooty soon, and
romp in heasy winners! Yours,
'ARRY.
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