POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG.—"AFTER THE BALL."
Reading edition
[The authors of the various versions of this "popular song" will not, Mr. Punch is sure, object to its refrain being used in a far wider sense—being applied, so to speak, to a more extensive sphere—than they contemplated.]
Man, youth or maiden, amateurs, pros., Season of snow-storms, time of the rose, 'Tis the same story all have to tell! Not even Kipling's go half as well. Nay: and this story is real and true. All England over, Colonies too, Cricketers, golfers, footballers, all One pursuit follow—they're After the Ball!
Chorus—
After one ball-game's over, Promptly the next seems born; Quickly the Blackburn Rover Treads on the "Corn Stalk's" corn. Grace, Gunn, and Read, the Brothers Renshaw, fall off with the Fall; But there come hosts of others— After the Ball!
Lords and the Oval, crowded and bright, Send King Willow's subjects wild with delight. What are they doing 'midst shout and cheer? Smiting and chasing a small brown sphere! Fielded. Sir! Well hit!! Played, indeed!!! Wide!!!! Oh, well returned, Sir! Caught! No! Well tried! Cheering! Half-maddened! And what means it all? Grown men grown boys again—After the Ball!
Chorus—
Sixer, or maiden over, Misfield that moves young scorn, Every true cricket-lover Stares at from early morn. Watching the "champion" scoring, Ring and pavilion, all Chattering, cheering, roaring, After the Ball!
Then in October's chill and gloom, Wickets for goals make reluctant room. Talk is of "forwards," and "backs," and "tries." "Footbawl Herdition!" the newsboy cries. Fancy that, for a sportsman's fad! Players go frantic, and critics mad; Pros. and amateurs squabble and squall, And cripples seek hospital—After the Ball!
Chorus—
After the Ball the "Rovers" Rush, and the "Villans" troop; "Wolves"—who have lamb-like lovers— Worry and whirl and whoop. Scrimmages fierce, wild jostles, Many a crashing fall, Follow as "Blade" hunts "Throstle," After the Ball!
Balls are not all of leather, alas! Cricket, golf, tennis, and football pass; But Roberts the marvellous, Peall the clever, Like the Laureate's Brook, can go on for ever! The ivory ball—like the carvings odd In a Buddhist shrine—seems an ivory god; And "A Million Up" will be next the call Of the "exhibitionists"—After the Ball!
Chorus—
After the Ball is over? Nay, it is never done! All the year round some lover Keeps up the spheric fun! Ivory ball or leather, Someone will run or sprawl, Whate'er the hour or weather, After the Ball!
Is't that our earth, which, after all, Itself's a "dark terrestrial ball," Robs all "sportsmen" of sober sense Within its "sphere of influence"? "Special Editions" just to record How many kicks at a ball are scored?!?! Doesn't it prove that we mortals all Have gone sheer "dotty"—After the Ball?
Chorus—
After the Ball!—as batter, Handler of club, racquet, cue. Or kicker of goals—what matter? A Ballomaniac you! Each is as mad as a hatter, Who is so eager to sprawl, Scrimmage, scout, smash, smite, clatter, After the Ball!