So we stripped to the B. Race signal, the old red swallowtail--
There was young Ben Bolt and the Portland Colt, and Aston Villa,
and Yale;
And W. G., and Steinitz, Leander and The Saint,
And the G*rm*n Emp*r*r's Meteor, a-looking as fresh as paint;
John Roberts (scratch), and Safety Match, The Lascar, and Lorna
Doone,
Oom Paul (a bye), and Romany Rye, and me upon Wooden Spoon;
And some of us cut for partners, and some of us strung for baulk,
And some of us tossed for stations--But there, what use to talk?
Three-quarter-back on the Kingsclere crack was station enough for
me,
With a fresh jackyarder blowing and the Vicarage goal a-lee!
And I leaned and patted her centre-bit and eased the quid in her
cheek,
With a "Soh my lass!" and a "Woa you brute!"--for she could do all
but speak.
She was geared a thought too high perhaps; she was trained a
trifle fine;
But she had the grand reach forward! I never saw such a line!
Smooth-bored, clean run, from her fiddle head with its dainty ear
half-cock,
Hard-bit, _pur sang_, from her overhang to the heel of her off
hind sock.
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