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Throwing light and shade incessant
On the Bull Peaks’ ragged crescent,
Upon whose gloomy forehead lay a patch of winter’s snow.
Idly watching for the starting
Of the race that he had part in,
Old Gaylad stood and champed his bit, his weight about nine stone;
His owner stood beside him,
Who was also going to ride him—
A shearer from Gegederick, whose name was Ned Malone.
But Gaylad felt disgusted,
For his joints were fairly rusted:
He longed to feel the pressure of the jockey on his back;
