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!
