36 Indian Racing Reminiscences. 



You'd never guess these angels go to ' stables,' 



And smoke cigars and sit on billiard-taljles, 



Nor yet believe that they are ever seen 



Walking about without a crinoline. 



They well have learnt the fascinating arts 



Which women use to snare unwary hearts ; 



The sweet face flushing with a feigned surprise, 



The slow, shy raising of half-opened eyes. 



The backward glances as they gain the door, 



The glove — the flower — dropped upon the floor, 



The thousand chains with which their hands cndeavoiir 



To bind us to their chariot wheels for ever. 



Then come the men — but, though I wish to flatter. 



The praising men is quite a different matter 



From praising women — neither may be true, 



But I prefer the latter of the two. 



You never praise a man but you repent it ; 



But with a woman— why— perhaps you meant it. 



Here's Powell, on the stage as cool a hand 



As you will see him in Tod Heath's Stand, 



Laying the odds, and safe to win, of course, 



Like Dudley Sampson on a losing horse ; 



And Dcnison, whom fate, had she been sager. 



Had made an actor, not a Sergeant-Major ; 



And Childs, who shines alike in every part, 



Whose art is natural but still is Art ; 



Then the great master, whose enchantment seems 



To call from heaven the music of our dreams, 



Whose skill can draw from out the charmed air 



All love, all grief, all passion, all despair. 



And lastly, Barron, who, with brush in hand, 



Transforms a desert into fairy-land. 



Then, ladies, you whose smiles decree our laws, 



Confirm my praises with your sweet applause ; 



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