Ah, but her secret? You, young lover,
Drumming her old ones forth from town,
Know you the secret none discover?
Tell it--when _you_ go down.

Yet if at length you seek her, prove her,
Lean to her whispers never so nigh;
Yet if at last not less her lover
You in your hansom leave the High;
Down from her towers a ray shall hover--
Touch you, a passer-by!

[1] "The Quest of the Sangraal," R. S. Hawker.

JUNE.

The following verses made their appearance some years ago in the pages of
the _Pall Mall Magazine_. Since then (I am assured) they have put a
girdle round the world, and threaten, if not to keep pace with the banjo
hymned by Mr. Kipling, at least to become the most widely-diffused of
their author's works. I take it to be of a piece with his usual
perversity that until now they have never been republished except for
private amusement.

They belong to a mood, a moment, and I cannot be at pains to rewrite a
single stanza, even though an allusion to 'Oom Paul' cries out to be
altered or suppressed. But, after all, the allusion is not likely to
trouble President Kruger's massive shade as it slouches across the Elysian
fields; and after all, though he became our enemy, he remained a
sportsman. So I hope we may glance at his name in jest without a
suspicion of mocking at the tragedy of his fate.

THE FAMOUS BALLAD OF THE JUBILEE CUP.

You may lift me up in your arms, lad, and turn my face to the sun,
For a last look back at the dear old track where the Jubilee Cup was
won;
And draw your chair to my side, lad--no, thank ye, I feel no pain--
For I'm going out with the tide, lad, but I'll tell you the tale
again.

I'm seventy-nine, or nearly, and my head it has long turned grey,
But it all comes back as clearly as though it was yesterday--
The dust, and the bookies shouting around the clerk of the scales,
And the clerk of the course, and the nobs in force, and
Is 'Ighness, the Prince of Wales.

'Twas a nine-hole thresh to wind'ard, but none of us cared for that,
With a straight run home to the service tee, and a finish along the
flat.
"Stiff?" Ah, well you may say it! Spot-barred, and at
five-stone-ten!
But at two and a bisque I'd ha' run the risk; for I was a greenhorn
then.

So we stripped to the B. Race signa