| |
| “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 | |
| Then ever—he swears he can win all the way. | |
| |
| “A gentleman rider—well, I ’m an outsider, | 5 |
| 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 stripped for a trot within sight of the hounds, | 10 |
| A horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime and Yorick, | |
| And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine pounds. | |
| |
| “They say we have no test to warrant s protest; | |
| Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a steward; | |
| The light of their faces they show him—his case is | 15 |
| 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 could n’t be fitter, | |
| Whenever you hit her she’ll spring like a stag. | 20 |
| |
| “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 quiet 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, | 25 |
| 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, beastowed with great unction, | |
| I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce, | 30 |
| 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! | 35 |
| So, steady there, easy,” and down went the flag. | |
| |
| We strated, and Kerr made strong running on Mermaid. | |
| Through furrows that led to the first stake-and-bound, | |
| The crack, half extended, looked bloodlike and splendid, | |
| Held wide on the right where the head-land was sound. | 40 |
| |
| I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle, | |
| Before her two-thirds of the field got away, | |
| All though the wet pasture where floods of the last year | |
| Still loitered, they clotted my crimson with clay. | |
| |
| The fourth fence, a wattle, floored Monk and Blue-bottle; | 45 |
| The Drag came to grief at the blackthorn and ditch, | |
| The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover, | |
| The land stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire Witch. | |
| |
| She passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock Sparrow, | |
| And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone wall; | 50 |
| And Giles on The Greyling came down at the paling, | |
| And I was left sailing 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— | 55 |
| My cap was knocked 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 turned for home. | 60 |
| |
| Then crashed a low binder, and then close behind her | |
| The sward to the strokes of the favorite 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, | 65 |
| 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; | 70 |
| 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 | 75 |
| Brushed lightly, our stirrups clashed 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 flogged up the straight, and he led sitting still. | 80 |
| |
| 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, | 85 |
| 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!” | 90 |
| 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, | 95 |
| And flashes, and verges, and flits the white post. | |
| |
| 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. | 100 |
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