Old Sol is snoozing in the skies,
There's scent to-day for certain.
And down deep o'er Slowley Steep
The harbourer swears he shall drop, boys,
On brow, bay, bay and tray,
Tray and three on top, boys!
Look up, a stream of sporting pink
Along the ridge is rushing,
Morn's ashen cheek you'd almost think
To rosy red was blushing;