So we'll don the flannel jacket, and take out the trusty racket,
And though other folks slay pigeons, we'll forswear that cruel sport,
And through summer seek a haven on the sward so smoothly shaven,
With the whitened lines en règle for a neat lawn-tennis court.
The Place for Lawn-Tennis. "Way down in Tennessee."
"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!