THE AMATEUR YACHTSMAN
(A Nautical Song of the Period)
I'm bad when at sea, yet it's pleasant to me
To charter a yacht and go sailing,
But please understand I ne'er lose sight of land,
Though hardier sailors are railing.
If only the ship, that's the yacht, wouldn't dip,
And heel up and down and roll over,
And wobble about till I want to get out,
I'd think myself fairly in clover.
But, bless you! my craft, though the wind is abaft,
Will stagger when meeting the ripple,
Until a man feels both his head and his heels
Reversed as if full of his tipple.
In vain my blue serge when from seas we emerge,
Though dressed as a nautical dandy;
I can't keep my legs, and I call out for "pegs"
Of rum, or of soda and brandy.
A yacht is a thing, they say, fit for a king,
And still it is not to my liking;
My short pedigree does not smack of the sea,—
I can't pose a bit like a viking.
It's all very well when there isn't a swell,
But when that comes on I must toddle
And go down below, for a bit of a blow
Upsets my un-nautical noddle.
Britannia may rule her own waves,—I'm a fool
To try the same game, but, believe me,
Though catching it hot, yet to give up my "Yot"
Would certainly terribly grieve me.
You see, it's the rage, like the Amateur Stage,
Or Coaching, Lawn-Tennis, or Hunting:
So, though I'm so queer, I go yachting each year,
And hoist on the Solent my bunting.
A Henley Toast.—"May rivals meet without any sculls being broken!"
Of Course!—The very place for a fowl—Henley!
The Journal which evidently keeps the Key of the River.—The Lock to Lock Times.
