At the back of the course, and away
    Where the running-ground home again wheels,
Grubb travels in front on the bay,
    With a feather-weight hard at his heels.
But Yeomans, you see, is about,
    And the wily New Zealander waits,
Though the high-blooded flyer is out,
    Whose rider and colours are Tait’s.

Look! Ashworth comes on with a run
    To the head of the Levity colt;
And the fleet—the magnificent son
    Of Panic is shooting his bolt.
Hurrah for the Weatherbit strain!
    A Fireworks is first in the straight;
And “A Kelpie will win it again!”
    Is the roar from the ring to the gate.

The leader must have it—but no!
    For see, full of running, behind
A beautiful, wonderful foe
    With the speed of the thunder and wind!
A flashing of whips, and a cry,
    And Ashworth sits down on his horse,
With Kingsborough’s head at his thigh
    And the “field” scattered over the course!

In a clamour of calls and acclaim
    The pair race away from the ruck:
The horse to the last of it game—
    A marvel of muscle and pluck!
But the foot of the Sappho is there,
    And Kingston’s invincible strength;
And the numbers go up in the air—
    The colt is the first by a length!

The first, and the favourite too!
    The terror that came from his stall,
With the spirit of fire and of dew,
    To show the road home to them all;
From the back of the field to the straight
    He has come, as is ever his wont,
And carried his welter-like weight,
    Like a tradesman, right through to the front.

Nor wonder at cheering a wit,
    For this is the popular horse,
That never was beaten when “fit”
    By any four hoofs on the course;
To starter for Leger or Cup,
    Has he ever shown feather of fear
When saddle and rider were up
    And the case to be argued was clear?

No! rather the questionless pluck
    Of the blood unaccustomed to yield,
Preferred to spread-eagle the ruck,
    And make a long tail of the “field”.
Bear witness, ye lovers of sport,
    To races of which he can boast,
When flyer by flyer was caught,
    And beaten by lengths on the post!

Lo! this is the beautiful bay—
    Of many, the marvellous one
Who showed us last season the way
    That a Leger should always be won.
There was something to look at and learn,
    Ye shrewd irreproachable “touts”,
When the Panic colt tired at the turn,
    And the thing was all over—but shouts!

Aye, that was the spin, when the twain
    Came locked by the bend of the course,
The Zealander pulling his rein,
    And the veteran hard on his horse!
When Ashworth was “riding” ’twas late
    For his friends to applaud on the stands,
And the Sappho colt entered the straight
    With the race of the year in his hands.

Just look at his withers, his thighs!
    And the way that he carries his head!
Has Richmond more wonderful eyes,
    Or Melbourne that spring in his tread?
The grand, the intelligent glance
    From a spirit that fathoms and feels,
Makes the heart of a horse-lover dance
    Till the warm-blooded life in him reels.

What care have I ever to know
    His owner by sight or by name?
The horse that I glory in so
    Is still the magnificent same.
I own I am proud of the pluck
    Of the sportsman that never was bought;
But the nag that spread-eagled the ruck
    Is bound to be first in my thought.

For who that has masculine flame,
    Or who that is thorough at all,
Can help feeling joy in the fame
    Of this king of the kings of the stall?
What odds if assumption has sealed
    His soulless hereafter abode,
So long as he shows to his “field”
    The gleam of his hoofs, and the road?