It dogs my steps throughout the week,
That cursed crescendo of a shriek;
I cannot read, or write, or speak,
Undeafened by its howl unique,
That demon-yell of "Hall the Winners!"
I'm not, I own, a racing man;
I never loved a horse that ran,
And betting is a vice I ban;
Still, to the sporting caravan--
Or good, or bad, or saints, or sinners--
I bear no malice; nor would take
A leaf from any books they make;
Why then, should _they_, for mercy's sake,
Pursue me till my senses ache
With that relentless "Hall the Winners?"
If it were only but a few,
But "_Hall_ the Winners!"--why, the crew
Must winning be the whole year through!
Why can't a veteran or two
Retire in favour of beginners?
I'd rather welcome e'en the strain
Of "Hall the Losers!" than remain
A martyr frenzied and profane
To that importunate refrain
Of (There! they're at it!!) "Hall the Winners!"
* * * * *
THE HONOUR OF THE BAR.
_TO THE EDITOR OF PUNCH.
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