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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339858" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>How We Beat The Favourite</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup<br> <br>'Aye, squire,' said Stevens, 'they back him at evens ;<br>The race is all over, bar shouting, they say ;<br>The Clown ought to beat her ; Dick Neville is sweeter<br>Than ever—he swears he can win all the way.<br> <br>'A gentleman rider—well, I'm an outsider,<br>But if he's a gent who the mischief's a jock ?<br>You swells mostly blunder, Dick rides for the plunder,<br>He rides, too, like thunder—he sits like a rock.<br> <br>'He calls 'hunted fairly' a horse that has barely<br>Been stripp'd for a trot within sight of the hounds,<br>A horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime and Yorick,<br>And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine pounds.<br> <br>'They say we have no test to warrant a protest ;<br>Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a steward ;<br>The light of their faces they show him—his case is<br>Prejudged and his verdict already secured.<br> <br>'But none can outlast her, and few travel faster,<br>She strides in her work clean away from The Drag ;<br>You hold her and sit her, she couldn't be fitter,<br>Whenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag.<br> <br>'And p'rhaps the green jacket, at odds though they back it,<br>May fall, or there's no knowing what may turn up ;<br>The mare is quite ready, sit still and ride steady,<br>Keep cool ; and I think you may just win the Cup.'<br> <br>Dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for the tussle,<br>Stood Iseult, arching her neck to the curb,<br>A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry,<br>A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb.<br> <br>Some parting injunction, bestowed with great unction,<br>I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce,<br>When Reginald Murray, full tilt on White Surrey,<br>Came down in a hurry to start us at once.<br> <br>'Keep back in the yellow ! Come up on Othello !<br>Hold hard on the chestnut ! Turn round on The Drag !<br>Keep back there on Spartan ! Back you, sir, in tartan !<br>So, steady there, easy !' and down went the flag.<br> <br>We started, and Kerr made strong running on Mermaid,<br>Through furrows that led to the first stake-and-bound,<br>The crack, half extended, look'd bloodlike and splendid,<br>Held wide on the right where the headland was sound.<br> <br>I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle,<br>Before her two-thirds of the field got away ;<br>All through the wet pasture where floods of the last year<br>Still loitered, they clotted my crimson with clay.<br> <br>The fourth fence, a wattle, floor'd Monk and Bluebottle ;<br>The Drag came to grief at the blackthorn and ditch,<br>The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover,<br>The lane stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire Witch.<br> <br>She passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock Sparrow,<br>And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone wall ;<br>And Giles on The Greyling came down at the paling,<br>And I was left sailing in front of them all.<br> <br>I took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed her<br>Until the Black Bullfinch led into the plough,<br>And through the strong bramble we bored with a scramble—<br>My cap was knock'd off by the hazel-tree bough.<br> <br>Where furrows looked lighter I drew the rein tighter—<br>Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of white foam,<br>Her flanks mud-bespattered, a weak rail she shattered—<br>We landed on turf with our heads turn'd for home.<br> <br>Then crash'd a low binder, and then close behind her<br>The sward to the strokes of the favourite shook ;<br>His rush roused her mettle, yet ever so little<br>She shortened her stride as we raced at the brook.<br> <br>She rose when I hit her. I saw the stream glitter,<br>A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee,<br>Between sky and water The Clown came and caught her,<br>The space that he cleared was a caution to see.<br> <br>And forcing the running, discarding all cunning,<br>A length to the front went the rider in green ;<br>A long strip of stubble, and then the big double,<br>Two stiff flights of rails with a quickset between.<br> <br>She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her,<br>I found my hands give to her strain on the bit ;<br>She rose when The Clown did—our silks as we bounded<br>Brush'd lightly, our stirrups clash'd loud as we lit.<br> <br>A rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone coping—<br>The last—we diverged round the base of the hill ;<br>His path was the nearer, his leap was the clearer,<br>I flogg'd up the straight, and he led sitting still.<br> <br>She came to his quarter, and on still I brought her,<br>And up to his girth, to his breastplate she drew ;<br>A short prayer from Neville just reach'd me, 'The Devil !'<br>He muttered—lock'd level the hurdles we flew.<br> <br>A hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd careering,<br>All sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely heard ;<br>'The green wins !' 'The crimson !' The multitude swims on,<br>And figures are blended and features are blurr'd.<br> <br>'The horse is her master !' 'The green forges past her !'<br>'The Clown will outlast her !' 'The Clown wins !' 'The Clown !'<br>The white railing races with all the white faces,<br>The chestnut outpaces, outstretches the brown.<br> <br>On still past the gateway she strains in the straightway,<br>Still struggles, 'The Clown by a short neck at most,'<br>He swerves, the green scourges, the stand rocks and surges,<br>And flashes, and verges, and flits the white post.<br> <br>Aye ! so ends the tussle,—I knew the tan muzzle<br>Was first, though the ring-men were yelling 'Dead heat !'<br>A nose I could swear by, but Clarke said, 'The mare by<br>A short head.' And that's how the favourite was beat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Adam+Lindsay+Gordon">Adam Lindsay Gordon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339858" data-title="How We Beat The Favourite de Adam Lindsay Gordon" data-description="A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup
 
'Aye, squire,' said Stevens, 'they back him at evens ;
The race is all over, bar shouting, they say ;
The Clown ought to beat her ; Dick Neville is sweeter
Than ever—he swears he can win all the way.
 
'A gentle..."></div>
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