Gracious curve of neck, and fiddle tucked 'neath that entrancing chin--
Fain with you would I change places, O thrice happy violin!
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE TOURNEY.
["Golf is superseding Lawn-Tennis."--_Daily Paper_.]]
The Champions are mounted, a wonderful pair,
And the boldest who sees them must e'en hold his breath.
Their breastplates and greaves glitter bright in the air;
They have sworn ere they met they would fight to the death.
And the heart of the Queen of the Tournament sinks
At the might of Sir GOLF, the Red Knight of the Links.
But her Champion, Sir TENNIS, the Knight of the Lawn,
At the throne of the lady who loves him bows low:
He fears not the fight, for his racket is drawn,
And he spurs his great steed as he charges the foe.
And the sound of his war-cry is heard in the din,
"Fifteen, thirty, forty, deuce, vantage, I win!"
But the Red Knight, Sir GOLF, smiles a smile that is grim,
And a flash as of triumph has mantled his cheek;
And he shouts, "I would scorn to be vanquished by _him_,
With my driver, my iron, my niblick and cleek.
Now, TENNIS, I have thee; I charge from the Tee,
To the deuce with thy racket, thy scoring, and thee!"
And the ladies all cry, "Oh, Sir TENNIS, our own,
Drive him back whence he came to his bunkers and gorse.
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