LE SPORT
["The French sportswoman is not ardent, but just now Le Sport is the thing."—Daily Paper.]
Ze leetle bairds zat fly ze air
I vish zem not ze 'arms—
Zat is not vy ze gun I bear
So bravement in mine arms;
'Tis not zat I vould kill—Ah! non!
It is zat I adore
Ze noble institution
Ve call in France Le Sport.
And zen ze costume! Ah! ze 'at!
Ze gaitares! Vot more sweet
For ze young female-chaser zat
Do 'ave ze leetle feet?
Ze gun?—I fear 'im much, and oh!
'E makes my shouldare sore,
But yet I do 'im bear to show
'Ow much I love Le Sport.
Ze leetle partridge 'e may lay
'Is pretty leetle eggs,
Ze leetle pheasant 'op away
Upon 'is leetle legs,
Ze leetle 'are zat run si vite
I do not vish 'is gore—
But vile mine ankles zey are neat
I'll cry, "Ah! Vive le Sport!"
Keeper (to beater). "What are you doin' here? Why don't ye go and spread yourself out?"
Beater. "Zo I were spread out, and t'other man 'e told I, I were too wide!"
Master Bob. "I say, Adam, that was a pretty bad miss."
Keeper. "'Twasn't even that, Master Bob. 'Twas firing in a totally wrong direction."
"Beg pardon, sir! But if you was to aim at his lordship the next time, I think he'd feel more comforbler, sir!"