WEG, too, that grandest of all grand old men;
He's ridden some races; of chances and paces,
Of crocks versus cracks he did ought to be judge.
He sees you are speedy; when MORLEY sneers "Weedy,"
Or LAB doubts your staying, WEG knows it's all fudge!
We're biding our time, lad. Your fettle is prime, lad;
Though we're frost-bound now, open weather must come,
At least after Easter; and, beauty, when we stir.
And forge to the front, lad, we'll just make things hum.
In spite of much ruction concerning Obstruction,