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;