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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408344" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Kingsborough</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A waving of hats and of hands,<br>The voices of thousands in one,<br>A shout from the ring and the stands,<br>And a glitter of heads in the sun!<br>“They are off—they are off!” is the roar,<br>As the cracks settle down to the race,<br>With the “yellow and black” to the fore,<br>And the Panic blood forcing the pace. <br>At the back of the course, and away<br>Where the running-ground home again wheels,<br>Grubb travels in front on the bay,<br>With a feather-weight hard at his heels.<br>But Yeomans, you see, is about,<br>And the wily New Zealander waits,<br>Though the high-blooded flyer is out,<br>Whose rider and colours are Tait’s. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Look! Ashworth comes on with a run<br>To the head of the Levity colt;<br>And the fleet—the magnificent son<br>Of Panic is shooting his bolt.<br>Hurrah for the Weatherbit strain!<br>A Fireworks is first in the straight;<br>And “A Kelpie will win it again!”<br>Is the roar from the ring to the gate. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The leader must have it—but no!<br>For see, full of running, behind<br>A beautiful, wonderful foe<br>With the speed of the thunder and wind!<br>A flashing of whips, and a cry,<br>And Ashworth sits down on his horse,<br>With Kingsborough’s head at his thigh<br>And the “field” scattered over the course! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In a clamour of calls and acclaim<br>The pair race away from the ruck:<br>The horse to the last of it game—<br>A marvel of muscle and pluck!<br>But the foot of the Sappho is there,<br>And Kingston’s invincible strength;<br>And the numbers go up in the air—<br>The colt is the first by a length! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The first, and the favourite too!<br>The terror that came from his stall,<br>With the spirit of fire and of dew,<br>To show the road home to them all;<br>From the back of the field to the straight<br>He has come, as is ever his wont,<br>And carried his welter-like weight,<br>Like a tradesman, right through to the front. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nor wonder at cheering a wit,<br>For this is the popular horse,<br>That never was beaten when “fit”<br>By any four hoofs on the course;<br>To starter for Leger or Cup,<br>Has he ever shown feather of fear<br>When saddle and rider were up<br>And the case to be argued was clear? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No! rather the questionless pluck<br>Of the blood unaccustomed to yield,<br>Preferred to spread-eagle the ruck,<br>And make a long tail of the “field”.<br>Bear witness, ye lovers of sport,<br>To races of which he can boast,<br>When flyer by flyer was caught,<br>And beaten by lengths on the post! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lo! this is the beautiful bay—<br>Of many, the marvellous one<br>Who showed us last season the way<br>That a Leger should always be won.<br>There was something to look at and learn,<br>Ye shrewd irreproachable “touts”,<br>When the Panic colt tired at the turn,<br>And the thing was all over—but shouts! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Aye, that was the spin, when the twain<br>Came locked by the bend of the course,<br>The Zealander pulling his rein,<br>And the veteran hard on his horse!<br>When Ashworth was “riding” ’twas late<br>For his friends to applaud on the stands,<br>And the Sappho colt entered the straight<br>With the race of the year in his hands. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Just look at his withers, his thighs!<br>And the way that he carries his head!<br>Has Richmond more wonderful eyes,<br>Or Melbourne that spring in his tread?<br>The grand, the intelligent glance<br>From a spirit that fathoms and feels,<br>Makes the heart of a horse-lover dance<br>Till the warm-blooded life in him reels. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What care have I ever to know<br>His owner by sight or by name?<br>The horse that I glory in so<br>Is still the magnificent same.<br>I own I am proud of the pluck<br>Of the sportsman that never was bought;<br>But the nag that spread-eagled the ruck<br>Is bound to be first in my thought. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For who that has masculine flame,<br>Or who that is thorough at all,<br>Can help feeling joy in the fame<br>Of this king of the kings of the stall?<br>What odds if assumption has sealed<br>His soulless hereafter abode,<br>So long as he shows to his “field”<br>The gleam of his hoofs, and the road?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Kendall">Henry Kendall</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=408344" data-title="Kingsborough de Henry Kendall" data-description="A waving of hats and of hands,
The voices of thousands in one,
A shout from the ring and the stands,
And a glitter of heads in the sun!
“They are off—they are off!” is the roar,
As the cracks settle down to the race,
With the “yellow and b..."></div>
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