The Toast

(Adapted from Stet Fortuna Domus).

Pray charge your glasses, gentlemen,
And drink to Yorkshire’s honour.
May Fortune’s hand defend our land;
May glory shine upon her!
Lo, here we meet, a band élite
Of sportsmen bound together
Beneath the spell of dale and fell,
Of moorland and of heather.

We toast with cheers the pioneers
Who tramped by moor and burn side,
And stood the test with laugh and jest
From Penyghent to Whernside.
They gave the Club the priceless wealth
Of manful, high tradition.
May those who will not toast this health
Be toasted in perdition !

We toast the man who leads the van,
The man who keeps the figures;
We toast the two who scribe work do,
For all have worked like niggers.
But if we toast each worthy name —
And would that we were able —
Our rest instead of being bed
Would be< — beneath the table.

So once again your glasses drain,
And may we still continue
To seek our sport as Ramblers ought
With nerves and brain and sinew,
On crag and hill, in cave and gill,

Through fair or stormy weather:
A loyal band in heart and hand
Of Yorkshiremen together.

C. E. Benson.