Poor fellow! he done his best;
But, being in doubt, he'd ruled them out--which he always did when
pressed.
So, inch by inch, I tightened the winch, and chucked the sandbags
out--
I heard the nursery cannons pop, I heard the bookies shout:
"The Meteor wins!" "No, Wooden Spoon!" "Check!" "Vantage!"
"Leg Before!"
"Last Lap!" "Pass Nap!" At his saddle-flap I put up the helm and
wore.
You may overlap at the saddle-flap, and yet be loo'd on the tape:
And it all depends upon changing ends, how a seven-year-old will
shape;
It was tack and tack to the Lepe and back--a fair ding-dong to the
Ridge,
And he led by his forward canvas yet as we shot 'neath Hammersmith
Bridge.
He led by his forward canvas--he led from his strongest suit--
But along we went on a roaring scent, and at Fawley I gained a foot.
He fisted off with his jigger, and gave me his wash--too late!
Deuce--Vantage--Check! By neck and neck we rounded into the
straight.
I could hear the "Conquering 'Ero" a-crashing on Godfrey's band,
And my hopes fell sudden to zero, just there, with the race in
hand--
In sight of the Turf's Blue Ribbon, in sight of the umpire's tape,
As I felt the tack of her spinnaker c-rack! as I heard the steam
escape!
Had I lost at that awful juncture my presence of mind? .
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