A Polonaise
“Nemo me on pony lacessit.”
Mad bards, I hear, have gaily trolled
The boundless joys of cricket;
Have praised the bowler and the bowled
And keeper of the wicket.
I cannot join their merry song—
Non valeo sed volo—
But really I can come out strong,
Whene’er I sing of Polo!
Let golfophiles delight to air
Their putter-niblick learning;
And, scarlet-coated, swipe and swear
When summer sun is burning!
Let artful cards sit up and pass
Their nights in playing bolo;
But let me gambol—o’er the grass—
And make my game at Polo!
On chequered chess-boards students gaze
O’er futile moves oft grieving;
With knights content to pass their days,
And constant checks receiving.
’Mid kings and queens I have no place,
Espiscopari nolo—
I’d rather o’er the greensward race,
And find no check in Polo!
Then let me have my supple steed—
Good-tempered, uncomplaining—
So sure of foot, so rare in speed,
In perfect polo training.
And let me toast in rare old port,
In Heidsieck or Barolo,
In shady-gaff or something short—
The keen delights of Polo!
Motto for Croquet.—“She Stoops to Conquer.”
In-Door Amusement for Old People.—The game of croakey.
How to Learn to Love Your Enemies.—Play at croquet.
For the Drawing-Room (When there’s a dead silence.)—My first is a bird; my second’s a letter of the alphabet: my whole is some game.
Explanation. Crow. K. (Croquet.)
A player who sprained his wrist at lawn-tennis explained that “he had been trying a regular wrenchaw, and did it effectually.”