FIFTY YEARS OF A SHOWMAN'S LIFE 



Oh, what stories are told, and how varied the sort ! 



On the head the right nail oft they hit, 

 A happy combine with a good class of port, 



With a dash of post-prandial wit, a tit-bit, 



When spiced by the President's wit. 



Ardent spirits who dwell in * the boxes ' at night, 



With bated breath tell how they're barred 

 Of their natural rest long before it gets light, 



By the snorer who wakes the whole Yard, the whole Yard, 



Every cow, sheep and pig in the Yard. 



Should you ask for our rules, we have written ones none ; 



Constitutions have always some flaw, 

 And so we're content, after all's said and done, 



With our President's will as our law, as our law ; 



His nod or his wink is our law. 



He sits in the Chair, by no right of descent, 



And who can say whence comes the choice ? 

 He's simply a good thing by Providence sent, 



* Accepted with thanks,' and one voice, and one voice, 



Both ' Dei ' and ' Populi ' voice. 



Then we'll drink to old friends who in memory live, 



I have seen in my time not a few, 

 But their names are still heard, and a welcome we give 



To the sons of the fathers we knew, so well knew, 



And who link up the old with the new. 



Long life to the Mess ! Like a kindly old friend, 



My heart it has cheered oftentimes, 

 I wanted to say so, and that's why I've penned 



Tho' it's but a poor tribute, these rhymes, a few rhymes, 



It's my only excuse for these rhymes." 



THE WARBLIN' WAGGONER. 



There is in the Society's possession an interest- 

 ing relic of the early days of the Mess, consisting 

 of a fine horned-ram's head, in the brain-pan 

 of which is inserted a silver or plated receptacle 

 for snuff. The head, nose downwards, drops into 

 a metal frame-work on wheels, so that it could 



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