Mad bards, I hear, have gaily trolled
The boundless joys of cricket;
Have praised the bowler and the bowled
And keeper of the wicket.
I cannot join their merry song--
Non valeo sed volo--
But really I can come out strong,
Whene'er I sing of Polo!
Let golfophiles delight to air
Their putter-niblick learning;
And, scarlet-coated, swipe and swear
When summer sun is burning!
Let artful cards sit up and pass
Their nights in playing bolo;
But let me gambol--o'er the grass--
And make my game at Polo!
On chequered chess-boards students gaze
O'er futile moves oft grieving;
With knights content to pass their days,
And constant checks receiving.
'Mid kings and queens I have no place,
Espiscopari nolo--
I'd rather o'er the greensward race,
And find no check in Polo!
Then let me have my supple steed--
Good-tempered, uncomplaining--
So sure of foot, so rare in speed,
In perfect polo training.
And let me toast in rare old port,
In Heidsieck or Barolo,
In shady-gaff or something short--
The keen delights of Polo!
MOTTO FOR CROQUET.--"She Stoops to Conquer."
IN-DOOR AMUSEMENT FOR OLD PEOPLE.--The game of croakey.
HOW TO LEARN TO LOVE YOUR ENEMIES.--Play at croquet.
FOR THE DRAWING-ROOM (When there's a dead silence.)--My first is a bird; my second's a letter of the alphabet: my whole is some game.
Explanation. Crow. K. (Croquet.)
A PLAYER who sprained his wrist at lawn-tennis explained that "he had been trying a regular wrenchaw, and did it effectually."
