FullReads

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, passes 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 sunshine,
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.”