The Lancer in scarlet, the Rifle in green,
And the Horse-guard in blue, have abandoned the scene;
And we’ve witness’d the last of the blood-stirring frays
Where gallop’d in glory those terrible Greys.
No longer in toothsome libation is spilt
The Dew that is dear to the sons of the kilt;
No longer falls plashing in pleasantness here,
The frothy cascade of the black British beer,
O! Chobham Olympics, your games are all done,
The last close is wrestled, the last race is run,