Verses Inspired by my "Old Black Pipe"

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."