Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/124

 And never will they, maybe, See a flaxen-headed baby Flog racehorse to the winning-post with all his tiny might.

But Gaylad’s strength is waning— Gone, in fact, beyond regaining: Poor Babs is flogging hopelessly, as pale as any ghost: But he looks so brave and pretty That the Rose’s jock takes pity, And, pulling back a trifle, lets the baby pass the post.