Cheltenham

Floruit, floret, floreat!

    Cheltonia’s children cry.

I composed those lines when a summer wind

    Was blowing the elm leaves dry,

And we were seventy-six for seven

    And they had C.B. Fry.

Shall I forget the warm marquee

    And the general’s wife so soon,

When my son’s colleger1 acted as tray

    For an ice and a macaroon,

And distant carriages jingled through

    The stuccoed afternoon?

Floruit. Yes, the Empire Map

    Cheltonia’s sons have starred.

Floret. Still the stream goes on

    Of soldier, brusher2 and bard.

Floreat. While behind the limes

    Lengthens the Promenade.