Verses Inspired by my "Old Black Pipe"

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Ay! many a sport old Homer names,
By Achilles held at "his little games,"
On the banks of the swift Scamander;
And Pindar sings the Olympian deeds
Of the ivory car and the milk-white steeds,
Of Catullus or Lysander.

How clouds of dust aloft were spurn'd
By wheels that grazed the goals as they turn'd,
Till the bright sparks flicker'd redly;
How the strains of mingled mirth and fury
That swell'd in the chant of the "Morituri,"
Proclaim'd when the sports were deadly.

Ah! little we cared for classic lore,
When Greek was a task and Latin a bore,
In school-days that are deem'd of yore;
And who will venture to chide us,
If better we loved the play-field green,
And the black-thorn hedge that served for a screen
In the mills that settled our boyish spleen,
From the tutor's eyes to hide us.

Who envies the by-gone games of old?
They never were half so good as we're told,
Their loss is not worth bewailing.
We have seen Young Camel's slashing stride,
And Archer's rush, and Mormon's pride;
And the deer-like bound of Ingleside
At "five foot three" of a paling.

We've seen how the sides of Falcon bled,
And the hopes of Aruma's backers fled,
When the Rose of Denmark shot ahead,
And never again they caught her;
How false were the shouts of "Barwon's first,"
When she came "from the distance home" with a burst,
And the favourite's friends devoutly cursed
Old Premier's gamest daughter.

What cheers for King Alfred's white-faced son
Were heard, when the Western chace was done,
And the judge's verdict given,
While Vandyke fell in the beaten ranks,
And the red spots show'd on the mare's great flanks
How vainly the steel was driven.

And with anxious longing we wait the day,
When the prads must strip for the coming fray,
To be criticised in rotation;
But to spot the winner we will not try,
For a mist obscures our mental eye,
And we have not the power of prophecy,
Nor the spirit of divination.

Yet in fancy's glass we may scan the course,
And hear the bookmaker's challenge hoarse,
The odds incessantly dunning;
We may watch the starter's signal fall,
And the nags may picture, one and all,
For the Cup in a cluster running.

And mark, as they sweep before the stand,
How Ebor is going well in hand,
And Banker is pulling double;
How longer each moment grows the tail,
As one by one the outsiders fail,
And get into grief and trouble.

How Trainor pulls out of Waldock's track,
While upon the right comes the rose and black,
Like an eagle that scents the plunder;
How round the turn they jostle and crush,
And Simpson clears his whip for a rush,
And then on the crowd comes a lull and a hush!
And then a roar like thunder.

And when Beaufort collars the Western pet,
Then Greek meets Greek, unconquer'd yet,
And the tug of war commences;
As stride for stride with the stroke of one—
Like greyhounds running with couples on—
Together they fly their fences.

There's "Vates," and "Rhyming Richard" too,
Can tell much better than I or you
What nag's are likely the trick to do,
Nor will I their judgment sneer at.
If the gift of second-sight were mine,
I'd make my fortune, and then "I'd shine,"
But I haven't got it, and so I'll sign,
"QUI MERUIT PALMAM FERAT."