For everything's topsy-turvy now, the men are bedded at ten,
While the women sit up, and smoke and sup
In the Club of the Chickless Hen.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AN OLD SONG REVIVED.
COLONEL S-ND-RS-N _(the Irish "Lion Comique") sings_--
"WE DON'T WANT TO FIGHT,
BUT, BY JINGO, IF WE DO, ----"]
* * * * *
THE USEFUL CRICKETER.
(_A CANDID VETERAN'S CONFESSION._)
[Illustration]
I am rather a "pootlesome" bat--
I seldom, indeed, make a run;
But I'm rather the gainer by that,
For it's bad to work hard in the sun.
As a "field" I am not worth a jot,
And no one expects me to be;
My run is an adipose trot,
My "chances" I never can see.
I am never invited to bowl,
And though, p'raps, this seems like a slight
In the depths of my innermost soul
I've a notion the Captain is right.
In short, I may freely admit
I am not what you'd call a great catch;
But yet my initials are writ
In the book against every match!
For although--ay, and there is the rub--
I am forty and running to fat,
I have made it all right with the Club,
By presenting an Average Bat!
* * * * *
PRIVATE REFLECTIONS OF THE PUBLIC ORATOR AT CAMBRIDGE.
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