[Illustration]

  And there wos ’ard-mouthed middle-aged ’uns a shaking the Socherlist
      flag,
  And a ramping like tiger-cats tipsy around a rediklus red rag.

[Illustration]

  There wos patriots playing the clown, there was magistrates playing the
      fool;
  There wos jugginses teaching the trombone to kids at a bloomin’ Board
      School. 
  “This is Free Hedgercation in Shindy,” sez I.  “They’re as mad as March
      hares,
  All these Limboites, dear Miss DIANNER.  We do it much better
      downstairs!”

  She smiled kinder scoffish, I fancied, and give ’er white shoulders a
      hunch. 
  Says she; “I’ve no comments to make.  It’s along of my friend Mr. Punch
  Whom the whole Solar System obeys, and the Court of Olympus respects,
  That I wait on you ’ere, Mister ARRY.  Pray what would you like to see
      next?”

  “Well,” sez I, with a glance at her gaiters, “I’ve heard you’re a whale,
      Miss, at Sport. 
  Do you ‘know anythink’ wuth my notice?” She gave me a look of a sort,
  As I can’t put in words, not exactly, a sort o’ cold scorch,
      dontcherknow. 
  That’s a bit of a parrydocks p’raps; anyhow, it hurt wus than a blow.

  But we went on the fly once agen—­can’t say ’ow it wos managed, but soon
  We ’ad passed to a rum-looking region—­the opposite side of the Moon,
  Where no mortal afore had set foot, nor yet eyes, Miss DIANNER declared. 
  “Here’s a Region of Sport!” sez the lady.  Good Gracechurch Street, mate,
      ’ow I stared!

  Seemed a sort of a blend-like of Hepsom, and Goodwood, and Altcar, mixed
      up
  With the old Epping ’Unt and new Hurlingham, thoughts of the Waterloo Cup,
  Swell Polo and Pigeon-match tumbled about in my mind, while the din
  Was like Putney Reach piled on a Prizefight, with Kennington Oval chucked
      in.

  There wos toffs, fair top new ’uns, mixed hup with the welcher, the froth
      with the scum;
  There wos duchesses, proud as DIANNER, and she-things as sniffed of the slum;
  There was “champions” thick as bluebottles, and plungers as plenty as peas,
  With stoney-brokes, pale as a poultice, and “crocks,” orful gone at the knees;

  I see a whole howling mix-up of “mug” booky, dog-owner and rough,
  A-watching of snaky-shaped hounds pelting ’ard ‘after bits o’ brown fluff,
  I see—­and the Sportsman within me began for to bubble and burn,
  And I yelled, “O my hazure-horbed Mistress, can’t you and me ’ave jest
      a turn?”

  We did, and my “Purdey Extractor” made play, though it ain’t me to brag,
  But somehow her arrers went straighter, and ’ers wos the heaviest bag. 
  “Let me ’ave a try, Miss,” sez I, “with that trifle from Lowther Arcade!”
  I tried, and hit one of her dogs, as she didn’t think sport I’m afraid.