It’s up and away from our work to-day, For the breeze sweeps over the down; And it’s hey for a game where the gorse blossoms flame, And the bracken is bronzing to brown. With the turf ’neath our tread and the blue overhead, And the song of the lark in the whin; There’s the flag and the green, with the bunkers between— Now will you be over or in? The doctor may come, and we’ll teach him to know A tee where no tannin can lurk; The soldier may come, and we’ll promise to show Some hazards a soldier may shirk; The statesman may joke, as he tops every stroke, That at last he is high in his aims; And the clubman will stand with a club in his hand That is worth every club in St. James’. The palm and the leather come rarely together, Gripping the driver’s haft, And it’s good to feel the jar of the steel And the spring of the hickory shaft. Why trouble or seek for the praise of a clique? A cleek here is common to all; And the lie that might sting is a very small thing When compared with the lie of the ball. Come youth and come age, from the study or stage, From Bar or from Bench—high and low! A green you must use as a cure for the blues— You drive them away as you go. We’re outward bound on a long, long round, And it’s time to be up and away: If worry and sorrow come back with the morrow, At least we’ll be happy to-day. THE DYING WHIP It came from gettin’ ’eated, that was ’ow the thing begun, And ’ackin’ back to kennels from a ninety-minute run; ‘I guess I’ve copped brownchitis,’ says I to brother Jack, An’ then afore I knowed it I was down upon my back. At night there came a sweatin’ as left me deadly weak, And my throat was sort of tickly an’ it ’urt me for to speak; An’ then there came an ’ackin’ cough as wouldn’t leave alone, An’ then afore I knowed it I was only skin and bone I never was a ’eavy weight. I scaled at seven four, An’ rode at eight, or maybe at just a trifle more; And now I’ll stake my davy I wouldn’t scale at five, And I’d ’old my own at catch-weights with the skinniest jock alive. And the doctor says the reason why I sit an’ cough an wheeze Is all along o’ varmint, like the cheese-mites in the cheese; The smallest kind o’ varmint, but varmint all the same, Microscopes or somethin’—I forget the varmints’ name. But I knows as I’m a goner. They never said as much, But I reads the people’s faces, and I knows as I am such; Well, there’s ’Urst to mind the ’orses and the ’ounds can look to Jack, Though ’e never was a patch on me in ’andlin’ of a pack. You’ll maybe think I’m boastin’, but you’ll find they all agree That there’s not a whip in Surrey as can ’andle ’ounds like me; For I knew ’em all from puppies, and I’d tell ’em without fail— If I seed a tail a-waggin’, I could tell who wagged the tail.