BALL VERSUS BALL.
An Autumn Eclogue.
The rivals, Cricket Ball and Football, like Menalcas and Damœtas, defend their favourite Sports, and make their friend Punch (like Palemon) judge of their performances.
Football. Ho! Hurry up and put yourself away!
September's here, and Cricket's had its day.
You and your Bat have had a wondrous boom,
Now for a manlier sport, and Me, make room!
Cricket Ball. A manlier sport? Tell that to sordid Tykes!
The "brass," and not the game, is what he likes
Who kicks your swollen and unshapely form
Through snow and mud, in fog and frozen storm;
And in pursuit of silver pots and pelf,
Makes a dishevelled mudlark of himself;
Then calls it—Sport! O, there! don't talk to me.
I'm not a slave to sludge and L. S. D.
Football. Pooh! If I'm kicked you're spanked. The foot of Gunn
Hurts less than does his bat. Pray is it fun
To bide O'Brien's buffet? Have you scored
After two hours—at Hastings—with big Ford?
Grace thumps you for nine Centuries in one season,
And after that you crow with little reason!
Cricket Ball. Oh, Grace and Gunn lay on to me in love,
Ford's "gentle tap," O'Brien's "friendly shove"
Hurt not my feelings more than a slight slap
From rosy fingers hurts an amorous chap.
But you stand kicks for halfpence. Question it?
Well, just you read about the Football Split
And the two rival Unions!
Football. That's all fudge.
The North is of true Sport the truest judge!
How about Grace's Testimonial?
Cricket Ball. Not
A sample of the Hunting of the Pot,
But a free tribute to a sportsman prime,
Who plays the game right through, and laughs at Time.
But rowdyism and mere greed of gain
Will spoil the noblest sport. I speak with pain.