Three-quarter-back on the Kingsclere crack was station enough for
me,
With a fresh jackyarder blowing and the Vicarage goal a-lee!
And I leaned and patted her centre-bit and eased the quid in her
cheek,
With a "Soh my lass!" and a "Woa you brute!"—for she could do all
but speak.
She was geared a thought too high perhaps; she was trained a
trifle fine;
But she had the grand reach forward! I never saw such a line!
Smooth-bored, clean run, from her fiddle head with its dainty ear
half-cock,
Hard-bit, pur sang, from her overhang to the heel of her off
hind sock.
Sir Robert he walked beside me as I worked her down to the mark;
"There's money on this, my lad," said he, "and most of 'em's
running dark;
But ease the sheet if you're bunkered, and pack the scrummages
tight,
And use your slide at the distance, and we'll drink to your health
to-night!"
But I bent and tightened my stretcher. Said I to myself, said I—
"John Jones, this here is the Jubilee Cup, and you have to do or
die."
And the words weren't hardly spoken when the umpire shouted
"Play!"
And we all kicked off from the Gasworks End with a "Yoicks!" and a
"Gone Away!"
And at first I thought of nothing, as the clay flew by in lumps,
But stuck to the old Ruy Lopez, and wondered who'd call for trumps,
And luffed her close to the cushion, and watched each one as it
broke,
And in triple file up the Rowley Mile we went like a trail of smoke.
The Lascar made the running but he didn't amount to much,
For old Oom Paul was quick on the ball, and headed it back to touch;
And the whole first flight led off with the right as The Saint
took up the pace,
And drove it clean to the putting green and trumped it there with
an ace.
John Roberts had given a miss in baulk, but Villa cleared with a
punt;
And keeping her service hard and low the Meteor forged to the front;
With Romany Rye to windward at dormy and two to play,
And Yale close up—but a Jubilee Cup isn't run for every day.
We laid our course for the Warner—I tell you the pace was hot!
And again off Tattenham Corner a blanket covered the lot.
Check side! Check side! now steer her wide! and barely an inch of
room,
With The Lascar's tail over our lee rail and brushing Leander's
boom.
We were running as strong as ever—eight knots—but it couldn't
last;
For the spray and the bails were flying, the whole field tailing
fast;
And the Portland Colt had shot his bolt, and Yale was bumped at
the Doves,
And The Lascar resigned to Steinitz, stalemated in fifteen moves.
It was bellows to mend with Roberts—starred three for a penalty
kick:
But he chalked his cue and gave 'em the butt, and Oom Paul marked
the trick—
"Offside—No Ball—and at fourteen all! Mark Cock! and two for his
nob!"
When W.G. ran clean through his lee and beat him twice with a lob.