HOW WE BEAT THE FAVORITE

A LAY OF THE LOAMSHIRE HUNT CUP

"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
Than ever-he swears he can win all the way.

"A gentleman rider-well, I'm an outsider,

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,
A horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime and Yorick,
And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine pounds.

"They say we have no test to warrant a protest;

Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a steward;
The light of their faces they show him-his case is
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 couldn't be fitter,
Whenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag.

"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,
Keep cool; and I think you may just win the Cup."

Dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for the tussle,
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, bestowed with great unction,
I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce,
When Reginald Murray, full tilt on White Surrey,
Came down in a hurry to start us at once.

'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,
-il flashed close to my knee,
er The Clown came and caught her
leared was a caution to see.

And forcing the running, discarding all cunning,

A length to the front went the rider in green;
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
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.

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,
Still struggles, "The Clown by a short neck at most,'
He swerves, the green scourges, the stand rocks and surges,
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. Adam Lindsay Gordon [1833-1870]

RT VII

ROW, DEATH AND

RTALITY

"DEATH, BE NOT PROUD"

From "Holy Sonnets"

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do go-
Rest of their bones and souls' delivery!

Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!
John Donne [1573-1631]