Volume 102 — CRIES WITHOUT WOOL.

Of all the cries this world can boast— A loud, unconscionable host— There's one that I detest the most— It haunts me o'er my morning toast, It scares my luncheon's calm and dinner's. It dogs my steps throughout the week, That cursed crescendo of a shriek; I cannot read, or write, or speak, Undeafened by its howl unique, That demon-yell of "Hall the Winners!" I'm not, I own, a racing man; I never loved a horse that ran, And betting is a vice I ban; Still, to the sporting caravan— Or good, or bad, or saints, or sinners— I bear no malice; nor would take A leaf from any books they make; Why then, should they, for mercy's sake, Pursue me till my senses ache With that relentless "Hall the Winners?" If it were only but a few, But "Hall the Winners!"—why, the crew Must winning be the whole year through! Why can't a veteran or two Retire in favour of beginners? I'd rather welcome e'en the strain Of "Hall the Losers!" than remain A martyr frenzied and profane To that importunate refrain Of (There! they're at it!!) "Hall the Winners!"