Tourist Trophy Races
Off from the Grandstand, dropping down Bray Hill,
Rounding the Quarter Bridge, to Ballacraine,
Weaving Glen Helen and the northern fringe
Of our green hills, and climbing to the sill
Of Snaefell and the Pot, falling again,
Doubling the Governor’s Hairpin, with a twinge
Of anxious fear that surely lasts until
The line is passed; – so, not without some pain,
Discomfort, fortitude, perhaps a tinge
Of danger, race these boys with consummate skill !
And as we watch, explosions in our ears,
Those of us who remember still hear Scotts,
See Indians and Sunbeams, Rudges, Dots
And all the phantom crew of yester years.