Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, July 27, 1895 (Illustrated)

Air—"The Lost Chord."

Reading one day in our "Organ,"
I was happy and quite at ease.
A band was playing the "Lost Chord,"
Outside—in three several keys.
But I cared not how they were playing,
Those puffing Teutonic men;
For I'd "cut the record" at cycling,
And was ten-mile champion then!

It flooded my cheeks with crimson,
The praise of my pluck and calm;
Though that band seemed blending "Kafoozleum"
With a touch of the Hundredth Psalm.
But my joy soon turned into sorrow,
My calm into mental strife;
For my Record was "cut" on the morrow,
And it cut me, like a knife.
A fellow had done the distance
In the tenth of a second less!
And henceforth my name in silence
Was dropt by the Cycling Press.

I have sought—but I seek it vainly—
With that Record again to shine.
Midst crack names in our Cycling Organ,
But they never mention mine
It may be some day at the Oval
I may cut that Record again,
But at present the Cups are given
To better—or luckier—men!