The Race

On the hill they are crowding together,

In the stand they are crushing for room,

Like midge-flies they swarm on the heather,

They gather like bees on the broom;

They flutter like moths round a candle —

Stale similes, granted, what then?

I've got a stale subject to handle,

A very stale stump of a pen.

Hark! the shuffle of feet that are many,

Of voices the many-tongued clang —

“Has he had a bad night?” “Has he any

Friends left?” — How I hate your turf slang;

‘ Tis stale to begin with, not witty,

But dull, and inclined to be coarse,

But bad men can n't use ( more's the pity )

Good words when they slate a good horse.

Heu! heu! quantus equis ( that's Latin

For “bellows to mend” with the weeds ),

They're off! lights and shades! silk and satin!

A rainbow of riders and steeds!

And one shows in front, and another

Goes up and is seen in his place,

Sic transit ( more Latin ) — Oh! bother,

Let's get to the end of the race.

See, they come round the last turn careering,

Already Tait's colours are struck,

And the green in the vanguard is steering,

And the red's in the rear of the ruck!

Are the stripes in the shade doom'd to lie long?

Do the blue stars on white skies wax dim?

Is it Tamworth or Smuggler?‘ Tis Bylong

That wins — either Bylong or Tim.

As the shell through the breach that is riven

And sapp'd by the springing of mines,

As the bolt from the thunder-cloud driven,

That levels the larches and pines,

Through yon mass parti-colour'd that dashes

Goal-turn'd, clad in many-hued garb,

From rear to van, surges and flashes

The yellow and black of The Barb.

Past The Fly, falling back on the right, and

The Gull, giving way on the left,

Past Tamworth, who feels the whip smite, and

Whose sides by the rowels are cleft;

Where Tim and the chestnut together

Still bear of the battle the brunt,

As if eight stone twelve were a feather,

He comes with a rush to the front.

Tim Whiffler may yet prove a Tartar,

And Bylong's the horse that can stay,

But Kean is in trouble — and Carter

Is hard on the satin-skinn'd bay;

And The Barb comes away unextended,

Hard held, like a second Eclipse,

While behind the hoof-thunder is blended

With the whistling and crackling of whips.