From father to son I descended
In genealogical line
And ne'er did I need to be mended
'Twas long e'er my power did decline.

But at last out of fashion I went, sirs
And they pensioned me off on the wall
With scarcely a chip or a dent, sirs
In the fam'ly's baronial hall.

'Twas thought that I'd finished my battles
Such thoughts were erroneous quite
For e'er my mem'ry there rattles
The din of that last awful fight.

My master one evening, I mind, sirs
Had looked on the wine when 'twas red
With some medical students he'd dined, sirs
And at 3.30 got into bed.

In the Buffet at Charing Cross Station
My master had sat about one
And was having a strong altercation
About the Refreshment Room bun.

  Some fellows surrounded that bun, sirs
And conjectured with awe at its age
Saying, 'Nothing could sever that bun, sirs
If it dies it will be of old age.'

Quoth my master, 'You're all talking rot, sirs
Speak only on subjects you know
I'll wager five pounds on the spot, sirs
That I'll sever that bun at a blow.'

Some sportsman accepted his wager
And fixed up the night and the hour
Then he came and told me, the 'Old Stager'
And grinned as he thought of my power.

I seemed to smell blood once again, sirs
Once more I would romp o'er the slain
To get at that bun I was fain, sirs
To smash it again and again.

At last came the eve stipulated
Spectators stood round in a ring
The betting was quite animated
Which to me seemed a marvellous thing.

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