Part 31 (2/2)
”Leg Before!”
”Last Lap!” ”Pa.s.s Nap!” At his saddle-flap I put up the helm and wore.
You may overlap at the saddle-flap, and yet be loo'd on the tape: And it all depends upon changing ends, how a seven-year-old will shape; It was tack and tack to the Lepe and back--a fair ding-dong to the Ridge, And he led by his forward canvas yet as we shot 'neath Hammersmith Bridge.
He led by his forward canvas--he led from his strongest suit-- But along we went on a roaring scent, and at Fawley I gained a foot.
He fisted off with his jigger, and gave me his wash--too late!
Deuce--Vantage--Check! By neck and neck we rounded into the straight.
I could hear the ”Conquering 'Ero” a-cras.h.i.+ng on G.o.dfrey's band, And my hopes fell sudden to zero, just there, with the race in hand-- In sight of the Turf's Blue Ribbon, in sight of the umpire's tape, As I felt the tack of her spinnaker c-rack! as I heard the steam escape!
Had I lost at that awful juncture my presence of mind? ... but no!
I leaned and felt for the puncture, and plugged it there with my toe....
Hand over hand by the Members' Stand I lifted and eased her up, Shot--clean and fair--to the crossbar there, and landed the Jubilee Cup!
”The odd by a head, and leg before,” so the Judge he gave the word: And the umpire shouted ”Over!” but I neither spoke nor stirred.
They crowded round: for there on the ground I lay in a dead-cold swoon, Pitched neck and crop on the turf atop of my beautiful Wooden Spoon.
Her dewlap tire was punctured, her bearings all red hot; She'd a lolling tongue, and her bowsprit sprung, and her running gear in a knot; And amid the sobs of her backers, Sir Robert loosened her girth And led her away to the knacker's. She had raced her last on earth!
But I mind me well of the tear that fell from the eye of our n.o.ble Pr*nce, And the things he said as he tucked me in bed--and I 've lain there ever since; Tho' it all gets mixed up queerly that happened before my spill,-- But I draw my thousand yearly: it 'll pay for the doctor's bill.
I'm going out with the tide, lad--you 'll dig me a numble grave, And whiles you will bring your bride, lad, and your sons, if sons you have, And there when the dews are weeping, and the echoes murmur ”Peace!”
And the salt, salt tide comes creeping and covers the popping-crease;
In the hour when the ducks deposit their eggs with a boasted force, They'll look and whisper ”How was it?” and you'll take them over the course, And your voice will break as you try to speak of the glorious first of June, When the Jubilee Cup, with John Jones up, was won upon Wooden Spoon.
_Arthur T. Quiller-Couch_.
A SONG OF IMPOSSIBILITIES
Lady, I loved you all last year, How honestly and well-- Alas! would weary you to hear, And torture me to tell; I raved beneath the midnight sky, I sang beneath the limes-- Orlando in my lunacy, And Petrarch in my rhymes.
But all is over! When the sun Dries up the boundless main, When black is white, false-hearted one, I may be yours again!
When pa.s.sion's early hopes and fears Are not derided things; When truth is found in falling tears, Or faith in golden rings; When the dark Fates that rule our way Instruct me where they hide One woman that would ne'er betray, One friend that never lied; When summer s.h.i.+nes without a cloud, And bliss without a pain; When worth is noticed in a crowd, I may be yours again!
When science pours the light of day Upon the lords of lands; When Huskisson is heard to say That Lethbridge understands; When wrinkles work their way in youth, Or Eldon's in a hurry; When lawyers represent the truth, Or Mr. Sumner Surrey; When aldermen taste eloquence Or bricklayers champagne; When common law is common sense, I may be yours again!
When learned judges play the beau, Or learned pigs the tabor; When traveller Bankes beats Cicero, Or Mr. Bishop Weber; When sinking funds discharge a debt, Or female hands a bomb; When bankrupts study the _Gazette_, Or colleges _Tom Thumb_; When little fishes learn to speak, Or poets not to feign; When Dr. Geldart construes Greek, I may be yours again!
When Pole and Thornton honor cheques, Or Mr. Const a rogue; When Jericho's in Middles.e.x, Or minuets in vogue; When Highgate goes to Devonport, Or fas.h.i.+on to Guildhall; When argument is heard at Court, Or Mr. Wynn at all; When Sydney Smith forgets to jest, Or farmers to complain; When kings that are are not the best, I may be yours again!
When peers from telling money shrink, Or monks from telling lies; When hydrogen begins to sink, Or Grecian scrip to rise; When German poets cease to dream, Americans to guess; When Freedom sheds her holy beam On Negroes, and the Press; When there is any fear of Rome, Or any hope of Spain; When Ireland is a happy home, I may be yours again!
When you can cancel what has been, Or alter what must be, Or bring once more that vanished scene, Those withered joys to me; When you can tune the broken lute, Or deck the blighted wreath, Or rear the garden's richest fruit, Upon a blasted heath; When you can lure the wolf at bay Back to his shattered chain, To-day may then be yesterday-- I may be yours again!
_W.M. Praed_.
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