She was geared a thought too high, perhaps; she was trained a trifle fine; But she had the grand reach forward! _I_ never saw such a line! Smooth-bored, clean-run, from her fiddle head with its dainty ear half-cock, Hard-bit, _pur sang_, from her overhang to the heel of her off hind sock. Sir Robert he walked beside me as I worked her down to the mark; "There's money on this, my lad," said he, "and most of 'em's running dark; But ease the sheet if you're bunkered, and pack the scrimmages tight, And use your slide at the distance, and we'll drink to your health to-night!" But I bent and tightened my stretcher. Said I to myself, said I,-- "John Jones, this here is the Jubilee Cup, and you have to do or die." And the words weren't hardly spoken when the umpire shouted "Play!" And we all kicked off from the Gasworks end with a "Yoicks!" and a "Gone away!" And at first I thought of nothing, as the clay flew by in lumps, But stuck to the old Ruy Lopez, and wondered who'd call for trumps, And luffed her close to the cushion, and watched each one as it broke, And in triple file up the Rowley mile we went like a trail of smoke. The Lascar made the running: but he didn't amount to much, For old Oom Paul was quick on the ball, and headed it back to touch; And the whole first flight led off with the right, as The Saint took up the pace, And drove it clean to the putting green and trumped it there with an ace. John Roberts had given a miss in baulk, but Villa cleared with a punt; And keeping her service hard and low, The Meteor forged to the front, With Romany Rye to windward at dormy and two to play, And Yale close up--but a Jubilee Cup isn't run for every day. We laid our course for the Warner--I tell you the pace was hot! And again off Tattenham Corner a blanket covered the lot. Check side! Check side! Now steer her wide! And barely an inch of room, With The Lascar's tail over our lee rail, and brushing Leander's boom! We were running as strong as ever--eight knots--but it couldn't last; For the spray and the bails were flying, the whole field tailing fast; And the Portland colt had shot his bolt, and Yale was bumped at the Doves, And The Lascar resigned to Steinitz, stale-mated in fifteen moves. It was bellows to mend with Roberts--starred three for a penalty kick: But he chalked his cue and gave 'em the butt, and Oom Paul scored the trick-- "Off-side--no-ball--and at fourteen all! Mark cock! and two for his nob!"-- When W. G. ran clean through his lee, and yorked him twice with a lob.