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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 grass 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.

Steel and cord do their worst, now my head struggles first!
That tug my last spurt has expended–
Nose to nose! lip to lip! from the sound of the whip
He strains to the utmost extended.

How they swim through the air, as we roll to the chair,
Stand, faces, and railings flit past;
Now I spring * * *
from my lair with a snort and a stare,
Rous’d by Fred with my supper at last.