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.