Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Adam Lindsay Gordon 1833–70How We Beat the Favorite
GordonA“A
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
Hold hard on the chestnut! Turn round on The Drag!
Keep back there on Spartan! Back you, sir, in tartan!
So, steady there, easy,” and down went the flag.
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.
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 Drag came to grief at the blackthorn and ditch,
The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover,
The land stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire Witch.
And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone wall;
And Giles on The Greyling came down at the paling,
And I was left sailing front of them all.
Until the Black Bullfinch led into the plough,
And through the strong bramble we bored with a scramble—
My cap was knocked off by the hazel-tree bough.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 Clown will outlast her!” “The Clown wins!” “The Clown!”
The white railing races with all the white faces,
The chestnut outpaces, outstretches the brown.
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.
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.