HOW WE BEAT THE FAVORITE A LAY OF THE LOAMSHIRE HUNT CUP "AYE, squire," said Stevens, "they back him at evens; The Clown ought to beat her; Dick Neville is sweeter "A gentleman rider-well, I'm an outsider, But if he's a gent, who the mischief's a jock? Been stripped for a trot within sight of the hounds, "They say we have no test to warrant a protest; Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a steward; "But none can outlast her, and few travel faster, "And p'raps 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, Dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for the tussle, A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry, Some parting injunction, bestowed with great unction, 'e Beat the Favorite 3147 llow! Come up on Othello! hestnut! Turn round on The Drag! partan! Back you, sir, in tartan! sy," and down went the flag. made strong running on Mermaid. at led to the first stake-and-bound, led, looked bloodlike and splendid, ght where the headland was sound. : her rush with the snaffle, ds of the field got away, asture where floods of the last year lotted my crimson with clay. attle, floored Monk and Blue-bottle; grief at the blackthorn and ditch, Redoubt and Red Rover, ycurgus and Leicestershire Witch. ow Kildare and Cock Sparrow, Mermaid refused the stone wall; eyling came down at the paling, ng in front of them all. , nor eased her nor nursed her lfinch led into the plow, g bramble we bored with a scrambled off by the hazel-tree bough. lighter I drew the rein tighter; appled with flakes of white foam, ttered, a weak rail she shattered; with our heads turned for home. nder, and then close behind her rokes of the favorite shook; nettle, yet ever so little tride as we raced at the brook. er. I saw the stream glitter, And forcing the running, discarding all cunning, A length to the front went the rider in green; She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her, A rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone coping- She came to his quarter, and on still I brought her, And up to his girth, to his breast-plate she drew; A short prayer from Neville just reached me, "The Devil," He muttered,-locked 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 blurred. "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, Ay! 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 favorite was beat. Adam Lindsay Gordon [1833-1870] "DEATH, BE NOT PROUD" From "Holy Sonnets" DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die! |