MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. 



MY TRIP TO THE MATCH. 



" York ! you're wanted." Old Saw. 



Gracious me ! Well to be sure ! 

 What a rise in our " mural literature !" 

 In the good old times sure not such a load 

 Of posters were used on the Great North Koad ; 

 In blue or red, or yellow, or white, 

 They dart at each turn on the Londoner's sight. 

 Messieurs say, " Eh bien ! ve vill go 

 To see York fight, at COURSE DE CHEVAUX j" 

 Signors from Italy simper and dally 

 While they read of " A YORK CORSA DI CAVALLI ;" 

 The fierce-looking Herr thrusts his hairy ken in 

 An announcement of " YORK PFERDERENNEN." 

 And Englishmen bring all their racing lore 

 To bear on the contest at old Ebor ; 

 And loudly declare that their patience would fail 

 If at Euston they wait for the telegraph's tale ; 

 So off their sheets and their coffee they toss, 

 And hie to the station at famed King's Cross. 



'Tis7 a.m., a right jovial crew, 

 We rattle along behind engines two : 

 Some warble the ditties of Coal Hole bards, 

 Some are beguiling the minutes with cards ; 

 Some take to snoozing but others are wiser, 

 And con o'er The Life and The Advertiser j 

 Frenchmen jabbered and Germans swore, 

 That they " neber see so pace so great strong before." 

 Fond recollections within us stir, 

 As we pass near the paddocks of " Westminster ;" 

 Ah ! would that death had ta'en, in his stead, 

 Some men without " eyes for a thorough-bred." 

 Merrily, merrily we sweep on 

 Past the dead-level race-course of Huntingdon ; 

 And while for a moment or two we halt, 

 On Cromwell we muse and the family malt. 

 Alas, my senior tutor ! 



Alas ! my junior dean ! 

 Your Herodotus and Conies 

 Are this Tuesday for the green ; 



