Volume 105, November 25th 1893

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

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POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG.--"AFTER THE BALL."

[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!

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THE HEIGHT OF COMFORT.

_Q._ I want to consult you about Flats. You must know all about them, as you have tried this kind of "high life" for a year. And I am quite charmed with the idea of getting one. Now, don't you find that they have many advantages over the old-fashioned separate house system?

_A._ Oh, a great many!

_Q._ I suppose that even in such paradises a few drawbacks do exist?

_A._ A few. For instance, did you notice, during your painful progress upstairs, a doctor coming out of the rooms just below us? No? Then you were fortunate. There's a typhoid case there, we hear.

_Q._ Dear me! Now I think of it, I did meet a woman dressed as a hospital nurse. But she was coming down from somewhere above you.

_A._ Yes. The people over our heads. It's a scarlet fever patient they have, I believe. We can hear the nurse moving about in the middle of the night. And chemists' boys with medicines call at our door, by mistake, at all hours.

_Q._ Still, they can't get in. Your flat is your castle, surely?

_A._ Quite so. It's a pity it isn't a roomier castle. Our bedrooms are like cupboards, and look out on a dark court. We have to keep the gas burning there all day.

_Q._ Oh, indeed! But then, being on one floor, living must be much cheaper, because you can do with only one servant?

_A._ That is true; but we find that the difficulty is to get servants to do with us. They hate being mastheaded like this; they miss the area, and the talks with the tradesmen, and so on.

_Q._ But they must go downstairs to take dust and cinders away?

_A._ No, those go down the shoot. At least, a good many of the cinders do, though some seem to stop on the way. Our downstair neighbours complain horribly, and threaten to summon us.

_Q._ Do they? On the whole, however, you find your fellow-residents obliging?

_A._ Oh, very! The landing window leads to some disputes. We like it open. The people upstairs prefer it shut. The case comes on at the police court next week.

_Q._ You surprise me! Then, as regards other expenses, you save, don't you, by paying no rates?

_A._ We do. That is why our landlord charges us for these eight rooms on one floor just double what we should have to pay for a large house all to ourselves.

_Q._ Thanks for giving me so much information. Of course, I knew there must be some disadvantages. And you won't be surprised to hear that we have taken a flat after all, as they are so fashionable?

_A._ On the contrary, I should be quite surprised if you didn't.

* * * * *

WELCOME TO "JOEY!"

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* * * * *

HOME RAILS.

(_By a Mournful Moralist._)

Each day my heart with pity throbs; Can sympathy refuse The ready tears, the frequent sobs, When reading City news?

Not long ago I daily found That you were good and "strong"-- You gained but little, I'll be bound, Nor kept that little long;

Yet I was happy, since it meant That, for a blissful term, You were so very excellent, So "steady" and so "firm."

Prosperity brings pride to all; You rose too high to sell. Then--pride must always have a fall-- You lamentably fell.

Think what your altered state has cost. Alas, you must confess That you are ruined since you lost Your noble steadiness!

"Unsettled" then--oh, feeble will!-- "Inactive" you were too. There's Someone "finds some mischief still For idle hands to do."

"Why be inactive? All should work. Rise then, and do not seek Good honest enterprise to shirk, Because you're rather "weak."

Alas, what use exhorting that Your fall you should annul? When some remark that you are "flat," And others call you "dull."

At times I hoped that you would turn, And mend your evil ways, That you were "better," I would learn, And "quiet" on some days.

But now your baseness fitly ends, "Irregular"--and so You are "neglected" by your friends, Who all pronounce you "low."

This conduct gives me such a shock, I wipe my streaming eyes-- I want to sell some railway stock; I'm waiting for the rise!

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THE "ULTRA FASHIONABLE DINNER-HOUR" WHEN DICKENS WROTE _MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT_.--It is mentioned by _Montague Tigg_, when that typical swindler gives _Jonas Chuzzlewit_ an invitation to a little dinner. It was "seven." Very few have guessed it, but most correspondents have referred to the dinner-hour at _Todgers's_. But _Todgers's_ was a very second-class establishment.

SOMEBODY proposes another Dickensian query:--SCENE--_The wedding at Wardle's._ TIME--_After the wedding breakfast:_--"At dinner they met again, after a five-and-twenty-mile walk." Where did they breakfast, and where did they dine, and how many hours did men of _Mr. Pickwick's_ and _Mr. Tupman's_ build take to do a twenty-five-mile walk in?

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THE GOLFER'S PARADISE.--_Link_-ed sweetness long drawn out.

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THE REAL ROADS TO SUCCESS.--CECIL RHODES.

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REX LOBENGULA.

["Rhymes are difficult things, they are stubborn things, Sir."--FIELDING: _Amelia_.]

LOBENGÚLA! LOBENGÚLA! How do you pronounce your name? How do those who call you ruler Your regality proclaim?

Does the stalwart Matabele Seared with many a cruel scar, Ere he gives his life so freely, Hail you King LOBENGULÁ?

Have I read in British journals, On a 'bus _en route_ to Holborn, Telegrams where British Colonels Have the cheek to call you LÓ-BEN?

Has your name some fearful meaning Redolent of blood and bones, Or am I correct in weening It's vernacular for JONES?

Kaiser! Potentate! Dictator! Any title that's sublime Choose, but send us cis-equator For your name the proper rhyme.

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AFTER THE CALL.

["A further call of £5 per share has recently been made on the shareholders in one of the companies in the Balfour group."]

After the call is over, What is there left to do, All absolutely vanished, Left not a single sou. Furniture, trinkets, money, Gone, gone, alas! are they all; What is there left but the workhouse After the call?

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UNDER THE ROSE.

(_A Story in Scenes._)