A Dream of the Melbourne Cup : A Long Way After Gordon

Bring me a quart of colonial beer And some doughy damper to make good cheer,
 * I must make a heavy dinner;

Heavily dine and heavily sup Of indigestible things full-up, Next month they run the Melbourne Cup,
 * And I have to dream the winner.

Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham, Ihe rich ragout and the charming cham,
 * I've got to mix my liquor;

Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg, Hard and tough as a wooden peg, And I'll grease it down with a hard-boiled egg,
 * Twill make me dream the quicker.

Now I am full of fearful feed, Now I may dream a race indeed,
 * In my restless troubled slumber;

While the night-mares race through my heated brain And their devil-riders spur amain, The tip for the Cup-will roward my pain,
 * And I'll spot the winning number.

Thousands and thousands and thousands more Like sands on the white Pacific shore,
 * The crowding people cluster;

For evermore it's the story old, While races are bought and backers are sold Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold,
 * In their thousands still they muster.

And the bookie’s cries grow fierce and hot "I’ll lay the Cup! The double, if not!"
 * "Five monkeys, Little John, sir!"

"Here’s fivers bar one, I lay, I lay!" And so they shout through the livelong day, And stick to the game that is sure to pay,
 * While fools put money on, sir!

And now in my dream I seem to go And bet with a "book" that I seem to know—
 * A Hebrew money-lender;

A million to five is the price I get— Not bad! but before I book the bet The horse’s name I clean forget,
 * His number and even gender.

Now for the start, and here they come, And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum
 * Beat by a hand unsteady;

They come like a rushing, roaring flood, Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood! For Acme is making the pace so good
 * There are some of 'em done already.

But round the back she begins to tire, And a mighty shout goes up "Crossfire!"
 * The magpie jacket’s leading;

And Crossfire challenges fierce and bold, And the lead she’ll have and the lead she’ll hold, But at length gives way to the black and gold,
 * Which away to the front is speeding.

Carry them on and keep it up— A flying race is the Melbourne Cup,
 * You must race and stay to win it;

And old Commotion, Victoria’s pride; Now takes the lead with his raking stride, And a mighty roar goes far and wide—
 * "There’s only Commotion in it!"

But one draws out from the beaten ruck And up on the rails by a piece of luck
 * He comes in a style that’s clever;

'It’s Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales! "Go at 'em now while their courage fails "Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!"
 * "The blue and white for ever!”

Under the whip! with the ears flat back, Under the whip! though the sinews crack,
 * No sign of the base white feather;

Stick to it now for your breeding's sake, Stick to it now though your hearts should break, While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake,
 * They come down the straight together.

Trident slowly forges ahead, The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red,
 * The pace is undiminished;

Now for the Panics that never fail! But many a backer’s face grows pale As old Commotion swings his tail
 * And swerves—and the Cup is finished.



And now in my dream it all comes back; I bet my coin on the Sydney crack,
 * A million I’ve won, no question!

Give me my money, you hook-nosed hog! Give me my money, bookmaking dog! But he disappears in a kind of fog,
 * And I wake with "the indigestion."