THE CRY OF THE CITY CHILDREN.
(For Playing Fields.)
[A conference of delegates of various Athletic Clubs was held on March 4, in the Memorial Hall, Farringdon Street, for the purpose of considering the necessity for the further provision of Playing fields for the people of the Metropolis.]
Would you see Town Children playing, O my brothers,
With their bats and leathern spheres?
They are herding where the slum-reek fumes and smothers,
And that isn't play, one fears.
The young rustics bat in verdant meadows,
The young swells are "scrummaging" out west;
They are forming future Graces, Stoddarts, Hadows;
They are having larks, which, after all, is best.
But the young Town Children, O my brothers,
They are mooning all the day;
They are idling in the play-time of the others,
For they have no place to play!
Do you recollect they used to play at cricket
In the bye-streets years ago,
With a broomstick for a bat, a coat for wicket?
Now the Bobbies hunt them so!
The old ladies grumble at their skipping;
The old gents object to their tip-cat;
So they squat midst slums that shine like dirty dripping,
Not knowing what the dickens to be at.
And the young Town Children, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand
Making mud-pies, to the horror of their mothers,
In their dirty Fatherland?
They look up with their pale and grubby faces,
And they answer—"Cricket? Us?
Only wish we could, but then there ain't no places;
Wot's the good to make a fuss?
Yes, you're right, Guv, this is dirty fun and dreary;
But 'Rounders' might just bring us 'fore the Beak,
And if we dropped our peg-top down a airey,
They would hurry up and spank us for our cheek.
Arsk the swell 'uns to play cricket, not us nippers;
We must sit here damp and dull,
'Midst the smell of stale fried fish and oily kippers,
'Cos the Town's so blooming full."
True, true O children! I of old have seen you
Playing peg-top, aye, like mad.
In the side-streets, and upon a village green you
Could scarce have looked more glad.
I have seen you fly the kite, and eke "the garter",
Send your "Rounders'" ball a rattling down the street.
If you tried such cantrips now you'd catch a tartar
In the vigilant big Bobby on his beat.
If you tossed the shuttle-cook or bowled the hoop now,
A-1's pounce would be your doom.
In the streets at Prisoner's Base you must not troop now,
There's no longer any room!
So you sit and smoke the surreptitious 'baccy,
And deal in scurril chaff;
Vulgar Jenny boldly flirts with vicious Jacky,
You're too knowing now by half.
They're unchildish imps, these Children of the City,
Bold and blasé, though their life has scarce begun,
Growing callous little ruffians—ah, the pity!—
For the lack of open space, and youthful fun.
Bedford's Bishop says the Cricket pitch is driven
Further, further, every day;
And the crowded City grows—well not a heaven,
Where there is no room for play.
So, if Cricketers and Footballers, who gather,
Find Town Children space for sport,
Punch will be extremely pleased with them; so, rather,
Will the thralls of lane and court.
Alfred Lyttleton, so keen behind the wicket;
Lord Kinnaird, who once was hot upon the ball,
Give our Arabs chance of football and of cricket.
And you'll fairly earn the hearty thanks of all;
For the young City Children, doomed to rummage
In dim alleys foul as Styx,
Never else may know the rapture of a "scrummage,"
Or "a slashing drive for Six!"
A Desirable "Raikes'" Progress.—In the direction of concession to the overworked and underpaid Post-Office employés.
