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: