Volume 153 — THE SPOIL-SPORT.

O gallant youths of Colwyn Bay, With what unmitigated rapture Did I peruse but yesterday The story of your famous capture! Alone ye did it, or at least 'Twas next to being single-handed; No other helped to catch the beast, No strength but yours the monster landed. But now comes in the cold Town Clerk, Who has meticulously stated It was a dogfish—not a shark— In size much overestimated. So ye intrepid striplings, who Made all your school-fellows feel humble, Are mulcted of your honours due By an officious Cambrian Bumble. But, though your generous hearts be sore, Take comfort: all the true patricians Of intellect have been at war With frigid, rigid statisticians. I too have suffered from the rule Of sceptics, icily pedantic, Who blighted, ere I went to school, My dreams when they were most romantic. For once, when swinging on a gate, With hands that doubtless daubed it jammily, I saw a lion, sure as fate, And fled indoors to tell the family. But when I told them, all agog, My aunt, a lean and acid spinster, Snapped out "the doctor's yellow dog"; And nothing I could say convinced her. "'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour—" Since HOMER, HANNIBAL or STRONGBOW, Men of outstanding mental power Are charged with drawing of the long bow. Great travellers—not your GRANTS or SPEKES— Who lived with dwarfs, or tamed gorillas, Or scaled imaginary peaks Upon the backs of pink chinchillas, Or in some languorous lagoon Bestrode the awe-inspiring turtle, Or in the Mountains of the Moon Saw rocs athwart the zenith hurtle— All, all have had their fame aspersed By rude Town Clerks or senior wranglers; But those who have been treated worst Are the heroic tribe of anglers.