And said it well, nor for a minute
Was ever at a loss,—I may
As well confess—we men weren't in it!
The talk was of Roumania's Queen,
And was she equal, say, to DANTE?—
The way that race was won by Sheen,
And not the horse called Alicánte—
Of how some charities were frauds,
How some again were quite deserving—
The beauties of the Norfolk broads—