Classic Poem

When first she fell in love with Frank,
'Twas not the latter's youth and rank,
Nor yet his balance at the bank
That won the heart of Elsie;
'Twas not the whiteness of his soul
That made her lose all self-control,
But 'twas the way he kicked a goal,
When playing " back " for Chelsea.
'Twas this inspired the girl's affection,
And turned her thoughts in Frank's direction.

But when, at Lord's, with bitter sobs,
She saw her sweetheart score two blobs,
Defeated by the googly lobs
Of Patrick Brown (of Dover);
And Brown, to further efforts spurred,
Took one more wicket, and a third,
Her love she speedily transferred
(He'd bowled the maiden over!);
When, as I say, he did the " hat-trick, "
She promptly fell in love with Patrick!

This flame, alas! was doomed to die.
As she was golfing, last July,
The Rev'rend Mr Jones passed by
(That well-known sporting cleric).
He drove superbly from the tee;
Said Elsie: " That's the man for me! "
And when he did a hole in three
(The seventh at North Berwick),
As from the green she watched him strutting,
She loved the parson for his putting!

Yet, when at Wimbledon she met
A man named Smith, who, in one set,
Served forty faults into the net,
In the most futile fashion,
Instead of feeling shocked or chilled
At sight of service so unskilled,
The maiden's heart with pity filled,
And pity led to passion!

They spent the honeymoon in Venice,
Where, luckily, there's no lawn-tennis!