THE AMATEURS 187 



There were twenty-five members who drove twice 

 a year to the White Hart at Benson in Oxfordshire — 

 fifty-six miles — where they dined, and twice to the 

 Black Dog at Bedfont — fourteen miles. From the names 

 of the two inns, the B.D.C. was nicknamed the Black 

 and White Club. 



Song of the B.D.C. 



You ask me gents to sing a song, 



Don't think me too encroaching, 

 I won't detain you very long, 



With one of mine on coaching. 

 No rivalry have we to fear. 



Nor jealous need we be, sir. 

 We all are friends who muster here. 



And in the B.D.C, sir. 



Horace declares the Greeks of old. 



Were once a driving nation; 

 But Shakespeare says "The World's a stage" 



A cutish observation. 

 The stage he meant, good easy man. 



Was drawn by nine old Muses; 

 But the Muse for me is the B.D.C. 



And that's the stage I chooses. 



I call this age the iron age 



Of Railways and Pretension, 

 And coaching now is in a stage 



Of horrible declension. 

 The days gone by when on the Fly 



We rolled to Alma Mater, 

 And jovial took the reins in hand 



Of the Times or Regulator. 



