Volume 107 — THE HARDY ANNUAL AT HENLEY

When the early cat erotically smiles On the tiles, I arise and rather accurately fling Any thing That is handy and adapted to my sense Of offence; Then I reconstruct my well-avengèd head On the bed; But the hope of sleep deferred is deadly dull, So I cull Memoranda from the great and golden time Of my prime. Twenty years ago at Henley-on-the-Thames, While the gems Of the season simply sparkled into cheers, (Little dears!) I endeavoured to secure the Ladies' Plate; Though of late I have been the painful object of remark In a barque; But the circuit of my waist was not as yet Fifty, nett; And I fancy I was feeling pretty fit; That was it. Then I fed on oaten fare and milky slops, Steaks and chops; Never, never looked a lobster in the face, And the race Saw me down to just eleven at the scales, Hard as nails; Now I very much prefer to view the hunt From a punt, Or a houseboat, or an ark, or any sort Of support, While I minimise the necessary strain With champagne. At the yearly celebration it's the rule, Hot or cool, For a girl with yellow eyes and eager hair To be there, By a mass of mayonnaise and pigeon-pie; So am I! Oh the glory of the battle past recall! After all, What with hearts that freely wobble, stitch that stabs, And the crabs, And the quicken up to forty round the chest— Lunch is best!