ould Pindar fire the athletic lyre,
A truant from his bright abode, Sir,
How would he chant the Chief heroic,
The trundler's hope become zeroic,
The drives from liberal shoulders poured,
The changing history of the Board!
Long may the champion's pith be scored
In figures leaping on the Board!
Strong in the arms as Hercules,
For club, a bat within his hand, Sir,
Behold him there, the foe's despair,
Persuade the bowling to the stand, Sir!
What if some wrinkles now take leases
Upon his brow? He's used to creases!
And, young in muscle, still can laugh
At fifty on Time's Telegraph.
This Toast, good comrades, let us quaff--
Three figures on his Telegraph!
My boy, bethink you ere you fling
Upon my heart a cloud of gloom.
Pause, pause a moment ere you bring
Your father to an early tomb
By playing Golf! For if you seek
To gravel your ast
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