Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 12

When Hynam's outstripp'd, and when Alfred is whipp'd, To keep him in sight of the leaders, While Blueskin runs true, but his backers look blue, For his rider's at work with the bleeders;

When his carcase of beef brings "the bullock" to grief, And the rush of the tartan is ended; When Archer's in trouble--who's that pulling double, And taking his leaps unextended?

He wins all the way, and the rest--sweet, they say, Is the smell of the newly-turned plough, friend, But you smell it too close when it stops eyes and nose, And you can't tell your horse from your cow, friend.

Part III Credat Judaeus Apella

Dear Bell,--I enclose what you ask in a letter, A short rhyme at random, no more and no less, And you may insert it, for want of a better, Or leave it, it doesn't much matter, I guess; And as for a tip, why, there isn't much in it, I may hit the right nail, but first, I declare, I haven't a notion what's going to win it (The Champion, I mean), and what's more, I don't care.

Imprimis, there's Cowra--few nags can go quicker Than she can--and Smith takes his oath she can fly; While Brown, Jones, and Robinson swear she's a sticker, But "credat Judaeus Apella", say I.

There's old Volunteer, I'd be sorry to sneer At his chance; he'll be there, if he goes at the rate He went at last year, when a customer queer, Johnny Higgerson, fancied him lock'd in the straight; I've heard that the old horse has never been fitter, I've heard all performances past he'll outvie; He may gallop a docker, and finish a splitter, But "credat Judaeus Apella", say I.

I know what they say, sir, "The Hook" he can stay, sir, And stick to his work like a sleuth-hound or beagle; He stays "with a HOOK", and he sticks in the clay, sir; I'd rather, for choice, pop my money on Seagull; I'm told that the Sydney division will rue, sir, Their rashness in front of the stand when they spy, With a clear lead, the white jacket spotted with blue, sir, But "credat Judaeus Apella", say I.

There's The Barb--you may talk of your flyers and stayers, All bosh--when he strips you can see his eye range Round his rivals, with much the same look as Tom Sayers Once wore when he faced the big novice, Bill Bainge.

Like Stow, at our hustings, confronting the hisses Of roughs, with his queer Mephistopheles' smile; Like Baker, or Baker's more wonderful MRS., The terror of blacks at the source of the Nile; Like Triton 'mid minnows; like hawk among chickens; Like--anything better than everything else: He stands at the post. Now they're off! the plot thickens!

Quoth Stanley to Davis, "How is your pulse?"

He skims o'er the smooth turf, he scuds through the mire, He waits with them, pa.s.ses them, bids them good-bye!

Two miles and three-quarters, cries Filgate, "He'll tire."

Oh! "credat Judaeus Apella", say I.

Lest my tale should come true, let me give you fair warning, You may "shout" some cheroots, if you like, no champagne For this child--"Oh! think of my head in the morning,"

Old chap, you don't get me on that lay again.

The last time those games I look'd likely to try on, Says Bradshawe, "You'll feel very sheepish and shy When you are haul'd up and caution'd by D----g----y and L----n,"

Oh! "credat Judaeus Apella", say I.

This writing bad verses is very fatiguing, The brain and the liver against it combine, And nerves with digestion in concert are leaguing, To punish excess in the pen and ink line; Already I feel just as if I'd been rowing Hard all--on a supper of onions and tripe (A thing I abhor), but my steam I've done blowing, I am, my dear BELL, yours truly, "The Pipe".

P.S.--Tell J. P., if he fancies a good 'un, That old chestnut pony of mine is for sale.

N.B.--His forelegs are uncommonly wooden, I fancy the near one's beginning to fail, And why shouldn't I do as W----n does oft, And swear that a cripple is sound--on the Bible-- Hold hard! though the man I allude to is soft, He's game to go in for an action of libel.

Part IV Banker's Dream

Of chases and courses dogs dream, so do horses-- Last night I was dozing and dreaming, The crowd and the bustle were there, and the rustle Of the silk in the autumn sky gleaming.

The stand throng'd with faces, the broadcloth and laces, The booths, and the tents, and the cars, The bookmakers' jargon, for odds making bargain, The nasty stale smell of cigars.

We formed into line, 'neath the merry suns.h.i.+ne, Near the logs at the end of the railing; "Are you ready, boys? Go!" cried the starter, and low Sank the flag, and away we went sailing.

In the van of the battle we heard the stones rattle, Some slogging was done, but no slaughter, A shout from the stand, and the whole of our band Skimm'd merrily over the water.

Two fences we clear'd, and the roadway we near'd, When three of our troop came to trouble; Like a bird on the wing, or a stone from a sling, Flew Cadger, first over the double.

And Western was there, head and tail in the air, And Pondon was there, too--what noodle Could so name a horse? I should feel some remorse If I gave such a name to a poodle.

In and out of the lane, to the racecourse again, Craig's pony was first, I was third, And Ingleside lit in my tracks, with the bit In his teeth, and came up "like a bird".

In the van of the battle we heard the rails rattle, Says he, "Though I don't care for shunning My share of the raps, I shall look out for gaps, When the light weight's away with the running."

At the fence just ahead the outsider still led, The chestnut play'd follow my leader; Oh! the devil a gap, he went into it slap, And he and his jock took a header.

Says Ingleside, "Mate, should the pony go straight, You've no time to stop or turn restive;"

Says I, "Who means to stop? I shall go till I drop;"

Says he, "Go it, old cuss, gay and festive."

The fence stiff and tall, just beyond the log wall, We cross'd, and the walls, and the water,-- I took off too near, a small made fence to clear, And just touch'd the gra.s.s with my snorter.

At the next post and rail up went Western's bang tail, And down (by the very same token) To earth went his nose, for the panel he chose Stood firm and refused to be broken.

I dreamt someone said that the bay would have made The race safe if he'd STOOD a while longer; IF he had,--but, like if, there the panel stands stiff-- He stood, but the panel stood stronger.

In and out of the road, with a clear lead still show'd The violet fluted with amber; Says Johnson, "Old man, catch him now if you can, 'Tis the second time round you'll remember."

At the road once again, pulling hard on the rein, Craig's pony popp'd in and popp'd out; I followed like smoke and the pace was no joke, For his friends were beginning to shout.

And Ingleside came to my side, strong and game, And once he appear'd to outstrip me, But I felt the steel gore, and I shot to the fore, Only Cadger seem'd likely to whip me.

In the van of the battle I heard the logs rattle, His stroke never seem'd to diminish, And thrice I drew near him, and thrice he drew clear, For the weight served him well at the finish.

Ha! Cadger goes down, see, he stands on his crown-- Those rails take a power of clouting-- A long sliding blunder--he's up--well, I wonder If now it's all over but shouting.

All loosely he's striding, the amateur's riding All loosely, some reverie locked in Of a "vision in smoke", or a "wayfaring bloke", His poetical rubbish concocting.

Now comes from afar the faint cry, "Here they are,"

"The violet winning with ease,"

"Fred goes up like a shot," "Does he catch him or not?"

Level money, I'll take the cerise.

To his haunches I spring, and my muzzle I bring To his flank, to his girth, to his shoulder; Through the shouting and yelling I hear my name swelling, The hearts of my backers grow bolder.

Neck and neck! head and head! staring eye! nostril spread!

Girth and stifle laid close to the ground!

Stride for stride! stroke for stroke! through one hurdle we've broke!

On the splinters we've lit with one bound.

And "Banker for choice" is the cry, and one voice Screams "Six to four once upon Banker;"

"Banker wins," "Banker's beat," "Cadger wins," "A dead heat"-- Ah! there goes Fred's whalebone a flanker.

Springs the whip with a crack! nine stone ten on his back, Fit and light he can race like the devil; I draw past him--'tis vain; he draws past me again, Springs the whip! and again we are level.