Observe the élite, staring into the street,
Through that famous elliptical casement;
How coldly they eye all the friends who pass by,
With a look of self-conscious effacement!
This ancient tradition of non-recognition
Is dear to all clubs (save Soho ones!),
Where Brummels and Nashes still twirl their moustaches,
And even the windows are Beau-ones!
Here, once the resort of all lovers of sport,
Are the counters and dice of past players;
The belt, too, bestowed upon Heenan, who showed
So much grit when he battled with Sayers.
Here, loudly proclaiming their passion for gaming,
Our prodigal ancestors betted;
Their shekels they squandered, and home again wandered,
Stone-broke or profoundly indebted!
Less prone to high play is the member to-day
Than his forbear, that fire-eating gamester.
His pleasure he takes in more moderate stakes,
And his losses don't cause quite the same stir.
But, still, a White's-clubber can win a big rubber,
With all of his forefathers' vigour,
And double 'no trumps,' too, until the score jumps to
A really respectable figure!
A cursory look at the old wager-book
Will discover full many an entry
Recalling the age when this club was the rage
Of the pick of our peerage and gentry.
But now the old places are filled with fresh faces,
Of members less wise and less witty,
Of hearty old busters, of pool-playing thrusters,
Of brokers and blokes from the City,
Whose names are less worthy recording on vellum
Than those of a Walpole, a Pulteney, or Pelham! |