I'm very ill; my circulation halts
I' the blood;
Soh! shall I take a dose of Epsom salts,
Or forego Epsom salts for Epsom races?
I chose the trip before the physic-sipping,
And very prettily I paid for tripping!
"Start fair," I cried,—I'd often started fowl
Out of the Moors,—but then I _did_ start fair:
The Course of course I reach'd, and cheek by jowl
Was standing with my _betters_, gazing there
At a horse winning at his jockey's beck,
As felons win the gallows—_by a neck_!
"Tak tent!" the Scotchman says, that's "look about,"
But, "take care _of the tent_," he should have said:
I went within, and wish I'd gone without
A stake, or had a good rump-steak instead;
But I _had_ cash, and having made a set
At them, and they at me, slap at Roulette.
And if 'twas _natural_ to have gone within,
I soon discovered it was very _flat_:
A sovereign good for me it would have been
If I had had no sovereigns,—_verbum sat_!
I lost!—and took no _note_ when all was done,
Except a note of how much they had won!
I cannot say they were a _dirty_ set,
Because they _clean'd me_ so completely out;
A bout like this of Epsom Downs' roulette
Teaches a mortal what he _is_ about.
Cheating _is_ physic.—While the game's alive
It empties pockets if it _doesn't_ thrive!