  Your Mistair Rudyar' Kipling say Ze cricquette man is "flannel fool." Ah! oui! TrÈs bon! I say so too, Since Mastair Jack, enfant at school, He show me how to play ze same. I like it not—ze cricquette game. My name is Monsieur Alphonse Vert (You call him in ze English "Green"); I go to learn ze English tongue, And lodge myself at Ealing Dean In family of Mistair Brown, Who has affaire each day "in town." Miss Angelina Brown she is TrÈs charmante—what you call "so pretty"; I walk and talk wiz her sometimes When Mr. Brown go to ze City; I fall in love (pardon zese tears) All over head, all over ears. And tickets for la matinÉe, And to ze cricquette match we go, HÉlas! upon one Saturday. To me she speak zere not at all. But watch ze men, and watch ze ball. Ze cricquette men zey run, zey bat, Zey throw ze ball, zey catch, zey shout; And Angelina clap her hands. Vot for, I know not, all about, And in myself I say "Ah! oui! I too a cricquette man shall be." To Angelina's brother Jack (His name is also Mastair Brown) I say, "Come, teach me cricquette match, And I will give you half-a-crown." Jack say, "My eye!" (in French mes yeux) "Oh! what a treat!" (in French c'est beau). After, to Ealing Common we Go out, with "wicquette" and with "ball," And what Jack calls a "cricquette-bat." (Zese tings I do not know at all; But Angelina I would catch, So "Allons! Vive la cricquette match!") I hold ze "bat," Jack hold ze "ball." "Now zen! Look out!" I hear him cry. I drop ze "bat," I look about; Ze ball—he hit me in ze eye." I cry, "Parbleu!" Ze stars I see. I think it is "all up" wiz me. I try again. Ze "ball" is hard. I catch him two times—on ze nose. I run, I fall, I hurt my arm, I spoil my new white flannel clothes, In every part I'm bruised and sore, So cricquette match I play no more. I change my clothes, I patch my eye, I tie my nose up in a sling, And to Miss Angelina Brown Myself and all my woes I bring. "Ah, see," I cry, "how love can make Alphonse a hero for thy sake." But Angelina laugh and laugh, |
|
