What though 'twas luck as much as skill that gathered up the pass,
Before us lies an open goal and eighty yards of grass.
Now, all ye gods of Hurlingham, come hearken to my call.
Give pace unto the twinkling feet that fly before them all!
Their Back is thwarted on the turn; their Three's
out-thrown and wide;
Their One and Two can scarce get through however
hard they ride;
So stretch your neck, my swift Babette, and lay
you down at speed.
There 's not a flier on the field can rob you of the lead!
The dancing ball runs straight and true, the ground
is fast as fire;
To us remains the single stroke to crown our heart's desire.
With purple on their ponies' flanks they close on either side.
But you will keep in front, Babette, whose only spur is pride!
One drive to make the trophy ours! One glorious goal to get!
The slow ball hangs and curves away. Swing in! Swing in, Babette!
Now I How the tingle of the stroke through arm and shoulder spins!
A hefty hit ... a deadly line ... a goal! The goal that wins.
