THE LADIES' FOOTBALL MATCH
by
Leonard Pounds

“The girls are displacing the men sir!”
Said a man to me once in the train
“Yes the cock’s being bossed by the hen, sir
Why they’re even on football insane.”

Then the following story he told me
It may, or it may not, be true
But just, in the words that he told me
I’ll give the narration to you.

“The young curate came to decide, sir
In answer to charity’s call
Fancy waist-coats and socks to provide, sir
For the Zulus, who wear none at all.

So some girls laid their fair heads together
And a sweet little plot they did hatch
They decided - no matter what weather
To fix up a girls football match.

Some hundreds of tickets they sold us
Some green, some pink, and some buff
‘Twas to be just a scratch match they told us
And scratch match it was right enough.

There were thousands of folk on the ground, sir
When at last the great day did arrive
And the curate the maidens hung round, sir
For the young man was but twenty-five.

‘Twas he was to be referee, sir
A job I’d not have for a ‘thou’
At the time he was envied by me, sir
But not after what I know now.

The trouble came right at the start, sir
When the Captain tried placing the field
“You’re forward,” she said to Miss Dart, sir
Who with angry amazement was filled.

“Who’s forward, you hussy?” she spluttered
“I’ll knock your false teeth down your throat!”
“Hush ladies,” the poor curate muttered
As both of them pulled at his coat.

“You occupy forward position
Is what Miss mackay means to say
So please take up that position
And then I will whistle for play.”

Then the Captain turned round to another
“You’re right inside, please Mary Baynes.”
“Why of course she is” shouted her mother
“Did you think the poor creature had pains.”

Then Miss Baynes, with her hair like a creeper
Of sarcasm bitter used lots
Saying - “Fancy you being goal-keeper
Why you’re more used to powder than shots.”

“When I looked at Miss Robinson’s dress, sir
My modesty murmured - Alack”
For there wasn’t much dress, I confess, sir
And that’s why they put her half-back.

Miss Cuddles first got at the ball, sir
And meant to propel it sky-high
And I’m sure ‘twasn’t her fault, sir
That she banged it in Nellie Smith’s eye.

Poor Nellie retired for repairs, sir
After calling the curate a pig
But in store were more worries and cares, sir
For poor Mrs Jones lost her wig.

Her hair we had always admired, sir
And to think we’d been ‘had’ - oh ‘twas gall
But Miss Blobbs, with excitement quite fired, sir
Scored a goal with that wig for the ball.

“A corner,” screamed long Sarah Flounder
To plump little Molly Magee
Cried Molly, “You bony old bounder
There aren’t any corners on me.”

“What a Foul,” shouted out ‘Tilda Coaltree
“Who’s a fowl? exclaimed charming Miss Buck
“I will not be classed with the poultry
Your husband once called me a Duck.”

Because she was asked not to ‘dribble’
Flo Johnson replied in a heat
“How dare you assert that I dribble
I use serviettes when I eat.”

Along the wing came Cissy Caskett
She cleverly dodged Mrs Pitch
But she dodged not that boy with the basket
And she quite failed in dodging the ditch.

A huge rush knocked the referee over
With heavy Miss Green on his head
“Will this be reported by ‘Rover’?”
The curate pathetically said.

“It’s half-time, please change,” said the curate
Quite glad of a respite no doubt
Said a Girl, “I refuse to endure it
What change? - with these people about.”

Exactly one hour since they started
But two players stuck to the fray
Between them the poor curate darted
In trying to get out of their way.

Oh, what a collision was there, sir
They went down in a struggling lump
The curate lay gasping for air, sir
O’er his eye was a terrible bump.

When the ambulancemen had departed
And at last peace and quietude reigned
On a search expedition we started
To gather up all that remained.

Nine hairpins, three belts and that wig, sir
Four fringe-nets and parts of an ear
Three quarters of Gertie Smith’s rig, sir
Who went home quite chilly I fear.

There were other things lying about, sir
Too crumpled to be of much use
They are lying there still without doubt, sir
Just where Mary Tomkins came loose.

That game’s now an oldish tradition
But still it’s related at times
But that curate has since said, “Perdition
To poor folk in far foreign climes.”