THE LAST RECORD

Reading one day in our "Organ," I was happy and quite at ease. A band was playing the "Lost Chord," Outside—in three several keys. But I cared not how they were playing, Those puffing Teutonic men; For I'd "cut the record" at cycling, And was ten-mile champion then!

It flooded my cheeks with crimson, The praise of my pluck and calm; Though that band seemed blending "Kafoozleum" With a touch of the Hundredth Psalm. But my joy soon turned into sorrow, My calm into mental strife; For my record was "cut" on the morrow, And it cut me, like a knife. A fellow had done the distance In the tenth of a second less! And henceforth my name in silence Was dropt by the Cycling Press.

I have sought—but I seek it vainly— With that record again to shine, Midst crack names in our Cycling Organ, But they never mention mine. It may be some day at the Oval I may cut that record again, But at present the Cups are given To better—or luckier—men!