Lapsus Calami (Apr 1891)/Of W. S. (Sir)
VIII. Of W. S. (Sir).
The Hundred Yards Race.
You ask me for a prophecyAbout the hundred: I replyThat man can do no more than try;And so commence and cast aboutTo find the lucky athletes out.The goddess of the football fieldSome valuable hints may yield:Inured to grisly war's alarms:She knows of many a feat of arms,Full many a tale has she to tellOf those who nobly fight and well:'Twas hers to sing the artful J.,Whose progress nothing could delay:Twas hers to sing Hunt's reckless rushThrough flooded fields and slimy slush,The while with gentle words he triedTo win like prowess from his side.These, and a host of such as they,She sings no longer, sad to say:But champions still remainWho furnish many a glorious themeUntil the past doth almost seemTo live in them again. For now the war-like goddess sings,Obedient to my questionings,Of Douglas's unrivalled grace,Of Elliot foremost in the race,And Stephen's more majestic pace:Of Chitty's meteoric flight.And Anderson as swift as light;Hawke's rapid swoop upon the ball,Wellesley who never tires at allWhate'er of toil betide:Macaulay's oft repeated bound,Swift Bayley's feet that shun the ground,The Professorial stride:Of Bryan Farrer fast as strong,Of Lawrence' limbs so lithe and long,Of Booth's wild gallop in the van.She sings the deathless praise:How stoutly Polhill-Turner ran.How Spring-Rice flashed across the field.How Peirse was never known to yield.She tells in stirring lays:She tells in frightened periodsHow Ridley's steps disturbed the infernal godsBut hold! my muse is running wildOn this too stirring theme:It was her weakness from a child;Excuse it, gentle reader, pray.Now from her eyes I dare to sayProphetic flashes gleam. Put not, rash man, thy hopes in allWho can pursue the flying ball:Not all of these shall dare to runWhen fate reserves the prize for one:Or if it shall most kindly beCan never favour more than three.Not all that I have named shall striveThe deadly struggle to survive:Smith may despise all worldly pelf,Start others but not start himself;And Chitty may be turned reporterIn Hundred, hurdle race and Quarter,And with his note-book scour the plainWith Chronicle upon the brain.Yet some will start: and now we reachThe wisdom I design to teach:My task I quickly will dispose of.There are but three your prophet knows ofWho may be safely backed for placesIn this, the shortest of the races,Macaulay, Lawrence, Elliot theseAre they: the order if you pleaseI'll leave to you, and so remainYours truly till we meet again,Poeta Etonensis quiStipendium meret Chronicli.
Eton College Chronicle, Nov., 1877.