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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=344030" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Our New Horse</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The boys had come back from the races <br>All silent and down on their luck; <br>They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places, <br>But never a winner they's struck. <br>They lost their good money on Slogan, <br>And fell most uncommonly flat <br>When Partner, the pride of the Bogan, <br>Was beaten by Aristocrat. <br>And one said, &quot;I move that instanter <br>We sell out our horses and quit; <br>The brutes ought to win in a canter, <br>Such trials they do when they're fit. <br>The last one they ran was a snorter -- <br>A gallop to gladden one's heart -- <br>Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter, <br>And finished as straight as a dart. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;And then when I think that they're ready <br>To win me a nice little swag, <br>They are licked like the veriest neddy -- <br>They're licked from the fall of the flag. <br>The mare held her own to the stable, <br>She died out to nothing at that, <br>And Partner he never seemed able <br>To pace with the Aristocrat. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;And times have been bad, and the seasons <br>Don't promise to be of the best; <br>In short, boys, there's plenty of reasons <br>For giving the racing a rest. <br>The mare can be kept on the station -- <br>Her breeding is good as can be -- <br>But Partner, his next destination <br>Is rather a trouble to me. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;We can't sell him here, for they know him <br>As well as the clerk of the course; <br>He's raced and won races till, blow him, <br>He's done as a handicap horse. <br>A jady, uncertain performer, <br>They weight him right out of the hunt, <br>And clap it on warmer and warmer <br>Whenever he gets near the front. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;It's no use to paint him or dot him <br>Or put any fake on his brand, <br>For bushmen are smart, and they'd spot him <br>In any sale-yard in the land. <br>The folk about here could all tell him, <br>Could swear to each separate hair; <br>Let us send him to Sydney and sell him, <br>There's plenty of Jugginses there. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;We'll call him a maiden, and treat 'em <br>To trials will open their eyes; <br>We'll run their best horses and beat 'em, <br>And then won't they think him a prize. <br>I pity the fellow that buys him, <br>He'll find in a very short space, <br>No matter how highly he tries him, <br>The beggar won't race in a race.&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> * * * * * </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Next week, under &quot;Seller and Buyer&quot;, <br>Appeared in the Daily Gazette: <br>&quot;A racehorse for sale, and a flyer; <br>Has never been started as yet; <br>A trial will show what his pace is; <br>The buyer can get him in light, <br>And win all the handicap races. <br>Apply before Saturday night.&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He sold for a hundred and thirty, <br>Because of a gallop he had <br>One morning with Bluefish and Bertie. <br>And donkey-licked both of 'em bad. <br>And when the old horse had departed, <br>The life on the station grew tame; <br>The race-track was dull and deserted, <br>The boys had gone back on the game. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> * * * * * </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The winter rolled by, and the station <br>Was green with the garland of Spring; <br>A spirit of glad exultation <br>Awoke in each animate thing; <br>And all the old love, the old longing, <br>Broke out in the breasts of the boys -- <br>The visions of racing came thronging <br>With all its delirious joys. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The rushing of floods in their courses, <br>The rattle of rain on the roofs, <br>Recalled the fierce rush of the horses, <br>The thunder of galloping hoofs. <br>And soon one broke out: &quot;I can suffer <br>No longer the life of a slug; <br>The man that don't race is a duffer, <br>Let's have one more run for the mug. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Why, everything races, no matter <br>Whatever its method may be: <br>The waterfowl hold a regatta; <br>The possums run heats up a tree; <br>The emus are constantly sprinting <br>A handicap out on the plain; <br>It seems that all nature is hinting <br>'Tis ime to be at it again. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;The cockatoo parrots are talking <br>Of races to far-away lands; <br>The native companions are walking <br>A go-as-you-please on the sands; <br>The little foals gallop for pastime; <br>The wallabies race down the gap; <br>Let's try it once more for the last time -- <br>Bring out the old jacket and cap. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;And now for a horse; we might try one <br>Of those that are bred on the place. <br>But I fancy it's better to buy one, <br>A horse that has proved he can race. <br>Let us send down to Sydney to Skinner, <br>A thorough good judge who can ride, <br>And ask him to buy us a spinner <br>To clean out the whole country-side.&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">They wrote him a letter as follows: <br>&quot;we want you to buy us a horse; <br>He must have the speed to catch swallows, <br>And stamina with it, of course. <br>The price ain't a thing that'll grieve us, <br>It's getting a bad un annoys <br>The undersigned blokes, and believe us, <br>We're yours to a cinder, 'the boys'.&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He answered: &quot;I've bought you a hummer, <br>A horse that has never been raced; <br>I saw him run over the Drummer, <br>He held him outclassed and outpaced. <br>His breeding's not known, but they state he <br>Is born of a thoroughbred strain. <br>I've paid them a hundred and eighty, <br>And started the horse in the train.&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">They met him -- alas, that these verses <br>Aren't up to their subject's demands, <br>Can't set forth thier eloquent curses -- <br>For Partner was back in their hands. <br>They went in to meet him with gladness <br>They opened his box with delight -- <br>A silent procession of sadness <br>They crept to the station at night. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And life has grown dull on the station, <br>The boys are all silent and slow; <br>Their work is a daily vexation, <br>And sport is unknown to them now. <br>Whenever they think how they stranded, <br>They squeal just as guinea-pigs squeal; <br>They'd bit their own hook, and were landed <br>With fifty pounds loss on the deal.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Andrew+Barton+Paterson">Andrew Barton Paterson</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=344030" data-title="Our New Horse de Andrew Barton Paterson" data-description="The boys had come back from the races 
All silent and down on their luck; 
They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places, 
But never a winner they's struck. 
They lost their good money on Slogan, 
And fell most uncommonly flat 
When Partner, the ..."></div>
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