LORD'S AND LADIES. (July 8, 1887.)
Lady loquitur:—
Battle of Blues? There's the blue of the skies and eyes aristocratic,
But take the array all around the true battle is polychromatic.
Eh? Fair versus Brand? Ah! of course; but you cannot expect us to narrow
The rainbow of Fashion to favour the yearnings of Eton and Harrow.
Nice lads, very nice; always like Eton boys, when they haven't got "pots" on,
And there is a good deal that's "smiting" in Whatshisname—no, I mean Watson;
But Blue's not so chic as it was, and a triumph in azure is barren,
That is, to a girl who is simply a girl, and not A. C. M'Laren,
White has it to-day, my dear Blanche, though a spotting of scarlet and crimson
Gleams over the ground, for sweet woman will take most peculiar whims on.
A nice bit of Chelsea? Eh? What? Oh! that plucky Lord Chelsea, dear fellow!
Not out, seventy-two; very good!—but do look at that girl in bright yellow!
It seems to add heat to the sun that is beating and broiling our backs on.
Eh? Why doesn't Fair make more use of his capital fast bowler, Jackson?
I'm sure I don't know. Edith Bland all alone there, poor faded forlorn flower!
Yes, Harrow has rather hard luck, and I wish I had mounted a cornflower;
But blue doesn't suit me a bit; and why can't they change colours with seasons,
These Teams? Oh! don't argue it, please, there's no muddle like male creatures' reasons.
That lady in heliotrope graceful? Dear me! why she walks like Pa's heifer,
Eat? Oh! it's too hot; I could lunch on a strawberry plus an iced zephyr.
Well, y-e-es, one more glass of champagne, and that salad is really delightful.—
Why Floss had three helps to my two, that child's appetite really is frightful!
Oh! what's that? Poor Fair out again? Now I think that's unfair. Oh! no pun, Sir—
I never do pun, if you please, and most surely not under this sun, Sir.
There are too many ways, don't you think, so? of getting "out"; bowlings, and catches,
And stumpings, and—what's l.b.w.? Always see that in these matches—
Oh! there is Prince Christian! I wish that the lads had less powerful voices,
This shouting must hurt Harrow's feelings, and if she has fewer "old choices"
That isn't her fault, I suppose, and they ought to allow her more batters.
That would harrow poor Harrow much more? Well, I really can't fathom such matters.
Ah! Raphael seems a sweet name; and he's "out for a duck" too; how horrid!
Why, even poor Gosling made four. Oh, dear me, 'tis tremendously torrid!
And, how they can run so——There, listen to Isabel Smythe, do just listen.
She's coached up in Cricketing slang; she has "crammed" for it. How her eyes glisten!
"Oh! bowled, Sir, indeed! Caught, Sir, caught!"—And she rhymes "bowled" to "howled." Most disgusting!
Last over? Hope Harrow will pull up to-morrow. Of course they are trusting
In mighty M'Laren again. But oh, if their colours they'd vary!
Unless you've a brother, you know, or a
lover like Mildred and Mary.
In one team or other, it's hard to get up an emotion that's "humming,"
For dark blue and light are so like, Sir, and neither is very becoming.