How We Beat The Favourite
A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup
"Aye, squire," said Stevens, "they back him at evens;
The race is all over, bar shouting, they say;
The Clown
ought to beat her; Dick Neville is sweeter
Than ever — he swears he can win all the way.
"A gentleman rider — well, I'm an outsider,
But if he's a gent who the mischief's a jock?
You swells mostly blunder, Dick rides for the plunder,
He rides, too, like thunder — he sits like a rock.
"He calls `hunted fairly' a horse that has barely
Been stripp'd for a trot within sight of the hounds,
A horse that at Warwick beat
Birdlime
and
Yorick
,
And gave
Abdelkader
at Aintree nine pounds.
"They say we have no test to warrant a protest;
Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a steward;
The light of their faces they show him — his case is
Prejudged and his verdict already secured.
"But none can outlast her, and few travel faster,
She strides in her work clean away from
The Drag
;
You hold her and sit her, she couldn't be fitter,
Whenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag.
"And p'rhaps the green jacket, at odds though they back it,
May fall, or there's no knowing what may turn up;
The mare is quite ready, sit still and ride steady,
Keep cool; and I think you may just win the Cup."
Dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for the tussle,
Stood
Iseult
, arching her neck to the curb,
A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry,
A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb.
Some parting injunction, bestowed with great unction,
I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce,
When Reginald Murray, full tilt on
White Surrey
,
Came down in a hurry to start us at once.
"Keep back in the yellow! Come up on
Othello
!
Hold hard on the chestnut! Turn round on
The Drag
!
Keep back there on
Spartan
! Back you, sir, in tartan!
So, steady there, easy!" and down went the flag.
We started, and Kerr made strong running on
Mermaid
,
Through furrows that led to the first stake-and-bound,
The crack, half extended, look'd bloodlike and splendid,
Held wide on the right where the headland was sound.
I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle,
Before her two-thirds of the field got away,
All through the wet pasture where floods of the last year
Still loitered, they clotted my crimson with clay.
The fourth fence, a wattle, floor'd Monk and
Bluebottle
;
The Drag
came to grief at the blackthorn and ditch,
The rails toppled over
Redoubt
and
Red Rover
,
The lane stopped
Lycurgus
and
Leicestershire Witch
.
She passed like an arrow
Kildare
and
Cock Sparrow
,
And
Mantrap
and
Mermaid
refused the stone wall;
And Giles on
The Greyling
came down at the paling,
And I was left sailing in front of them all.
I took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed her
Until the
Black Bullfinch
led into the plough,
And through the strong bramble we bored with a scramble —
My cap was knock'd off by the hazel-tree bough.
Where furrows looked lighter I drew the rein tighter —
Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of white foam,
Her flanks mud-bespattered, a weak rail she shattered —
We landed on turf with our heads turn'd for home.
Then crash'd a low binder, and then close behind her
The sward to the strokes of the favourite shook;
His rush roused her mettle, yet ever so little
She shortened her stride as we raced at the brook.
She rose when I hit her. I saw the stream glitter,
A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee,
Between sky and water
The Clown
came and caught her,
The space that he cleared was a caution to see.
And forcing the running, discarding all cunning,
A length to the front went the rider in green;
A long strip of stubble, and then the big double,
Two stiff flights of rails with a quickset between.
She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her,
I found my hands give to her strain on the bit;
She rose when
The Clown
did — our silks as we bounded
Brush'd lightly, our stirrups clash'd loud as we lit.
A rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone coping —
The last — we diverged round the base of the hill;
His path was the nearer, his leap was the clearer,
I flogg'd up the straight, and he led sitting still.
She came to his quarter, and on still I brought her,
And up to his girth, to his breastplate she drew;
A short prayer from Neville just reach'd me, "The devil!"
He mutter'd — lock'd level the hurdles we flew.
A hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd careering,
All sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely heard;
"The green wins!" "The crimson!" The multitude swims on,
And figures are blended and features are blurr'd.
"The horse is her master!" "The green forges past her!"
"
The Clown
will outlast her!" "
The Clown
wins!" "The Clown!"
The white railing races with all the white faces,
The chestnut outpaces, outstretches the brown.
On still past the gateway she strains in the straightway,
Still struggles, "
The Clown
by a short neck at most,"
He swerves, the green scourges, the stand rocks and surges,
And flashes, and verges, and flits the white post.
Aye! so ends the tussle, — I knew the tan muzzle
Was first, though the ring-men were yelling "Dead heat!"
A nose I could swear by, but Clarke said, "The mare by
A short head." And that's how the favourite was beat.
A gentleman rider (verse 2) indicatesan amateur as opposed to a jock (verse 2) who is a professional Jockey. But in this case the amateur (or swell) rides with the same dedication and skill as a professional.
