Kingsborough

A waving of hats and of hands,

The voices of thousands in one,

A shout from the ring and the stands,

And a glitter of heads in the sun!

“They are off — they are off!” is the roar,

As the cracks settle down to the race,

With the “yellow and black” to the fore,

And the Panic blood forcing the pace.

At the back of the course, and away

Where the running-ground home again wheels,

Grubb travels in front on the bay,

With a feather-weight hard at his heels.

But Yeomans, you see, is about,

And the wily New Zealander waits,

Though the high-blooded flyer is out,

Whose rider and colours are Tait's.

Look! Ashworth comes on with a run

To the head of the Levity colt;

And the fleet — the magnificent son

Of Panic is shooting his bolt.

Hurrah for the Weatherbit strain!

A Fireworks is first in the straight;

And “A Kelpie will win it again!”

Is the roar from the ring to the gate.

The leader must have it — but no!

For see, full of running, behind

A beautiful, wonderful foe

With the speed of the thunder and wind!

A flashing of whips, and a cry,

And Ashworth sits down on his horse,

With Kingsborough's head at his thigh

And the “field” scattered over the course!

In a clamour of calls and acclaim

The pair race away from the ruck:

The horse to the last of it game —

A marvel of muscle and pluck!

But the foot of the Sappho is there,

And Kingston's invincible strength;

And the numbers go up in the air —

The colt is the first by a length!

The first, and the favourite too!

The terror that came from his stall,

With the spirit of fire and of dew,

To show the road home to them all;

From the back of the field to the straight

He has come, as is ever his wont,

And carried his welter-like weight,

Like a tradesman, right through to the front.

Nor wonder at cheering a wit,

For this is the popular horse,

That never was beaten when “fit”

By any four hoofs on the course;

To starter for Leger or Cup,

Has he ever shown feather of fear

When saddle and rider were up

And the case to be argued was clear?

No! rather the questionless pluck

Of the blood unaccustomed to yield,

Preferred to spread-eagle the ruck,

And make a long tail of the “field”.

Bear witness, ye lovers of sport,

To races of which he can boast,

When flyer by flyer was caught,

And beaten by lengths on the post!

Lo! this is the beautiful bay —

Of many, the marvellous one

Who showed us last season the way

That a Leger should always be won.

There was something to look at and learn,

Ye shrewd irreproachable “touts”,

When the Panic colt tired at the turn,

And the thing was all over — but shouts!

Aye, that was the spin, when the twain

Came locked by the bend of the course,

The Zealander pulling his rein,

And the veteran hard on his horse!

When Ashworth was “riding”‘ twas late

For his friends to applaud on the stands,

And the Sappho colt entered the straight

With the race of the year in his hands.

Just look at his withers, his thighs!

And the way that he carries his head!

Has Richmond more wonderful eyes,

Or Melbourne that spring in his tread?

The grand, the intelligent glance

From a spirit that fathoms and feels,

Makes the heart of a horse-lover dance

Till the warm-blooded life in him reels.

What care have I ever to know

His owner by sight or by name?

The horse that I glory in so

Is still the magnificent same.

I own I am proud of the pluck

Of the sportsman that never was bought;

But the nag that spread-eagled the ruck

Is bound to be first in my thought.

For who that has masculine flame,

Or who that is thorough at all,

Can help feeling joy in the fame

Of this king of the kings of the stall?

What odds if assumption has sealed

His soulless hereafter abode,

So long as he shows to his “field”

The gleam of his hoofs, and the road?