Classic Poem

In Rotten Row, from day to day,
The hardy riders lightly muster,
Who love the scent of silvery may,
The bright laburnum's golden cluster:
Benevolent Hygeia smiles
Promise for years beyond our ken,
On those who do their dozen miles
In Rotten Row, from eight to ten.

When d'Orsay ruled, our fathers braved
In glossier garb all sorts of weather,
The ladies' flowing habits waved,
And headgear bore an ostrich feather;
Who now performs a caracole?
We're clad to climb a Perthshire glen;
There's nothing of the haute ecole
In Rotten Row, from eight to ten!

Once, sturdy cob of fourteen-two
So short of leg, so deep of shoulder,
You grazed where Channel breezes blew
Their keenest breath on moor and boulder;
As o'er the cocksfoot tufts you bent,
No notion ever crossed you then
Of trotting Seventy per Cent
Up Rotten Row, from eight to ten!

You, highborn steed, more priceless still,
We welcome you, a " blithe newcomer, "
Your grandsires toiled up Bury Hill,
And knew the roar of " Epsom Summer: "
Their " form " was marvellous, but ne'er
So much admired of gods and men,
As that fair form you smoothly bear
Down Rotten Row, from eight to ten!

We jog along, a motley throng,
Gloomy and gracious, dull and clever,
And some who find the season long,
And some who'd make it last for ever:
One muses of a sweet shy glance,
More eloquent than tongue or pen,
One's dreaming still of last night's dance,
In Rotten Row, from eight to ten

Each bears a load unguessed by each, —
Dread of distressing Mrs. Grundy, —
Weight of an undelivered speech, —
Doubts of the settling due on Monday
But no! let's ostracise Black Care,
If ride he must, it shan't be then,
We'll leave him to a penny chair,
In Rotten Row, from eight to ten!