Deportmental ditties : and other verses . The standard which our fathers held so dear—A priceless heritage and fair possession— To our enlightened eyes must now appearThe emblem of injustice and oppression. 0 Union Jack, the very thought of thee Brings blushes to the cheeks of Battersea ! In Australasia still the flag is flown ; For there, alas ! no Councils seek to deadenThe loyal feeling too distinctly shown By evry budding or potential Seddon.(0, tell us, Tommy Cornstalk, can it beThat you have never heard of Battersea?) 113 Deportmental Ditties Our French-Canadian cousin, did he knowThat w
Deportmental ditties : and other verses . The standard which our fathers held so dear—A priceless heritage and fair possession— To our enlightened eyes must now appearThe emblem of injustice and oppression. 0 Union Jack, the very thought of thee Brings blushes to the cheeks of Battersea ! In Australasia still the flag is flown ; For there, alas ! no Councils seek to deadenThe loyal feeling too distinctly shown By evry budding or potential Seddon.(0, tell us, Tommy Cornstalk, can it beThat you have never heard of Battersea?) 113 Deportmental Ditties Our French-Canadian cousin, did he knowThat we regarded it with such derision, Would shout, A bas ! Conspuez le drapeau! Wheneer the flag impinged upon his vision. But since he doesnt, we must all agree That he resides too far from Battersea. Let Peckham dress her flagstaffs if she will; Let bunting deck each housetop in the City ;These patriotic symbols only fill Our bosoms with a scornful kind of time for sickly sentiment have we;No dreams of Empire trouble Battersea!. 114 TOO OLD AT THIRTY (The failure of English cricketers to hold their own against Australia battributed to their extreme senility, thirty-four bein<,r the average age of the team defeatedin the second Test Match.) I must bid farewell to cricket, I may wield the bat no more ;Never, on an easy wicket,Pull the ball to leg or snick it To the ropes for four ;Never, with my cheeks vermilion,Proudly enter the pavilion,Mid the plaudits of the million, With a record score !Woe is me, and deep my sorrow ;I am thirty-four to-morrow !Thirty-four ! I can still remember clearly How the hapless batsmen swore,When each ball of mine (which nearlyKivalled those of Hirst or Brearley)Found them leg before !115 Deportmental Ditties How the wickets fell in batches, When I used to bowl for catches, In those first-class three-day matches, In the days of yore !Now I never play a one-day:I am thirty-four on Monday—Thirty-four! How triumphantly I fielded, When my
Size: 1462px × 1709px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, bookiddeportmental, bookyear1900
