Mark that red leader now: what a fine bleeder now!
Twelve hundred at least if he weighs half a pound!
None go ahead of him. Mark the proud tread of him!
See how he bellows and paws at the ground!
Watch the mad rush of ’em! raging and crush of ’em!
See when they struck how the corner-post jarred!
What a mad chasing and wheeling and racing and
Turbulent talk ’twixt the wings of the yard!
Harry and Teddy, there! let ’em go steady there!
Some of you youngsters will surely get pinned.
What am I saying? I’ve had my last day in
The saddle: I might as well talk to the wind.
Why should I grieve at all? soon I must leave it all—
Leave it for ever; and yet it seems hard
That I should be lingering here ’stead of fingering
Handle of whip ’twixt the wings of the yard.
Hear the loud crack of the whips on the back of the
Obstinate weaners who will not go in!—
Sharp fusilade of it till, half afraid of it,
Echo herself shuts her ears at the din.
They’ll say when it’s over now that I’m in clover now—
Happy old pensioner! yet it seems hard,
E’en on the brink of the grave, when I think of the
Times out of mind that I rode to that yard.
