Rejoice for triumphs on the turf,
For victories o'er the ocean surf
Far as the waves are tost!
Our shapely yachts have spread the sail,
Have dared the tumults of the gale,
The peltings of the snow and hail
To anchor by the British coast.
Our Sappho, Dauntless, and the brave,
Swift Fleetwing, on the stormy wave,
By Albion's cliffs and headlands bold
Have shown their matchless speed, while far
Aloft, upon the topmast spar,
Stream'd out the starry fold!

Along those shores, one summer day,
How bright the white-wing'd fleet's display,
When England's yachtsmen dar'd the world
To meet them with the sails unfurl'd
In national sea race.
Ah! then, America, how grand
Thy triumphs in that foreign land!
Taking the victor's place.

Now, a more brilliant crown we claim,
Won in historic fields of fame;
Won on the English turf renown'd;
Won where French steeds by kings were crown'd;
At Epsom and Newmarket won
From the best steeds that ever run;
Won where the Queen's cup was the prize;
Blue Ribbon, dear to English eyes;
Dear o'er all English ground!

For years untold the British steed,
Of choicest blood, of rarest breed,
Nurtur'd by prince and peer,
At Ascot, Derby's famous field,
Had caus'd all foreign rivals yield —
Yield in the race-career.
And now from realms beyond the sea;
From thy vast plains, America!
From prairies broad, from pastures green,
The steeds of Lorillard and Keene
Meet on the British field.
The English nobles as they lead
Forth from the stall the prancing steed,
Fear never prize to yield.
Ah! little dream they that at last
Their miracles, so matchless fast,
Shall yield the palm when Iroquois
Shall lead the van in racing war,
And glorious Foxall and Parole
Shall foremost reach the victor's goal,
And win the prize and wear the crown
Of grand, illustrious renown.

Look to your laurels! ye that sweep
With stately yacht the ocean deep,
Lest a new Madge shall bear away
The Conqueror's Cup we hold to-day.