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—

On chequered chess-boards students gaze

O'er futile moves oft grieving;

With knights content to pass their days,

And constant checks receiving.

'Mid kings and queens I have no place,

Espiscopari nolo—

I'd rather o'er the greensward race,

And find no check in Polo!

Then let me have my supple steed—

Good-tempered, uncomplaining—

So sure of foot, so rare in speed,

In perfect polo training.

And let me toast in rare old port,

In Heidsieck or Barolo,

In shady-gaff or something short—

The keen delights of Polo!