The following verses made their appearance some years ago in the pages of the _Pall Mall Magazine_. Since then (I am assured) they have put a girdle round the world, and threaten, if not to keep pace with the banjo hymned by Mr. Kipling, at least to become the most widely-diffused of their author's works. I take it to be of a piece with his usual perversity that until now they have never been republished except for private amusement. They belong to a mood, a moment, and I cannot be at pains to rewrite a single stanza, even though an allusion to 'Oom Paul' cries out to be altered or suppressed. But, after all, the allusion is not likely to trouble President Kruger's massive shade as it slouches across the Elysian fields; and after all, though he became our enemy, he remained a sportsman. So I hope we may glance at his name in jest without a suspicion of mocking at the tragedy of his fate. THE FAMOUS BALLAD OF THE JUBILEE CUP. You may lift me up in your arms, lad, and turn my face to the sun, For a last look back at the dear old track where the Jubilee Cup was won; And draw your chair to my side, lad--no, thank ye, I feel no pain-- For I'm going out with the tide, lad, but I'll tell you the tale again. I'm seventy-nine, or nearly, and my head it has long turned grey, But it all comes back as clearly as though it was yesterday-- The dust, and the bookies shouting around the clerk of the scales, And the clerk of the course, and the nobs in force, and Is 'Ighness, the Prince of Wales. 'Twas a nine-hole thresh to wind'ard, but none of us cared for that, With a straight run home to the service tee, and a finish along the flat. "Stiff?" Ah, well you may say it! Spot-barred, and at five-stone-ten! But at two and a bisque I'd ha' run the risk; for I was a greenhorn then. So we stripped to the B. Race signal, the old red swallow-tail-- There was young Ben Bolt, and the Portland colt, and Aston Villa, and Yale; And W. G., and Steinitz, Leander, and The Saint, And the German Emperor's Meteor, a-looking as fresh as paint; John Roberts (scratch), and Safety Match, The Lascar, and Lorna Doone, Oom Paul (a bye), and Romany Rye, and me upon Wooden Spoon; And some of us cut for partners, and some of us strung to baulk, And some of us tossed for stations--But there, what use to talk? Three-quarter-back on the Kingsclere crack was station enough for me, With a fresh jackyarder blowing and the Vicarage goal a-lee! And I leaned and patted her centre-bit, and eased the quid in her cheek, With a 'Soh, my lass!' and a 'Woa, you brute!'--for she could do all but speak.