THE HARDY ANNUAL AT HENLEY
Or, Lunch among the Rowers.
Air—"Love among the Ruins."
When the early cat erotically smiles
On the tiles,
I arise and rather accurately fling
Any thing
That is handy and adapted to my sense
Of offence;
Then I reconstruct my well-avengèd head
On the bed;
But the hope of sleep deferred is deadly dull,
So I cull
Memoranda from the great and golden time
Of my prime.
Twenty years ago at Henley-on-the-Thames,
While the gems
Of the season simply sparkled into cheers,
(Little dears!)
I endeavoured to secure the Ladies' Plate;
Though of late
I have been the painful object of remark
In a barque;
But the circuit of my waist was not as yet
Fifty, nett;
And I fancy I was feeling pretty fit;
That was it.
Then I fed on oaten fare and milky slops,
Steaks and chops;
Never, never looked a lobster in the face,
And the race
Saw me down to just eleven at the scales,
Hard as nails;
Now I very much prefer to view the hunt
From a punt,
Or a houseboat, or an ark, or any sort
Of support,
While I minimise the necessary strain
With champagne.
At the yearly celebration it's the rule,
Hot or cool,
For a girl with yellow eyes and eager hair
To be there,
By a mass of mayonnaise and pigeon-pie;
So am I!
Oh the glory of the battle past recall!
After all,
What with hearts that freely wobble, stitch that stabs,
And the crabs,
And the quicken up to forty round the chest—
Lunch is best!
