SATURDAYS.
Now has the soljer handed in his pack,
And "Peace on earth, goodwill to all" been sung;
I've got a pension and my ole job back—
Me, with my right leg gawn and half a lung;
But, Lord! I'd give my bit o' buckshee pay
And my gratuity in honest Brads
To go down to the field nex' Saturday
And have a game o' football with the lads.
It's Saturdays as does it. In the week
It's not too bad; there's cinemas and things;
But I gets up against it, so to speak,
When half-day-off comes round again and brings
The smell o' mud an' grass an' sweating men
Back to my mind—there's no denying it;
There ain't much comfort tellin' myself then,
"Thank Gawd, I went toot sweet an' did my bit!"
Oh, yes, I knows I'm lucky, more or less;
There's some pore blokes back there who played the game
Until they heard the whistle go, I guess,
For Time an' Time eternal. All the same
It makes me proper down at heart and sick
To see the lads go laughing off to play;
I'd sell my bloomin' soul to have a kick—
But what's the good of talkin', anyway?
"If we were suddenly to be deprived of the fast underground train, and presented with a sparse service of steam trains in sulphurous tunnels, the result on our tempers and the rate of our travelling would be—well, electric!"—Pall Mall Gazette.
We have tried to think of a less appropriate word than "electric," but have failed miserably.