The Bowler and the Wide-awake,
The Topper and the Straw,
The Homburg and the Helmet
May be hats without a flaw ;
The Bonnet of the Highlanders,
The Busby of the Greys
Are hats we shall remember
To the end of all our days ;
The Jockey-cap of sunlit silk,
The Bishop's Shovel-black
Can honour a cathedral town
Or grace a racing track.
But the neatest, sweetest headgear,
Be it e'er so crushed or crude.
Is the Hat upon the Skyline
When a forward fox is viewed.
It may be grimy, green with age,
Or stained with tar or muck.
Yet never flew so fair a flag
From tower or mizzen-truck,
And when we see it waving there
Against the wintry sky
We know the leading hounds are right,
And soon a fox shall die.
That holloa on the windy height
That sounds above the gale
Will send them racing o'er the ridge,
And chiming down the vale.
Salute it, then The Perfect Hat,
However grimed and green
The Hat upon the Skyline
When our sinking fox is seen!
