Well, this is beautiful, I do declare!
The bustle makes the scene a perfect fair,
Only there's so much fraud with great and small,
That, at a race, there's nothing fair at all;
Now, clear the ground, that horse is sure to win!
What! that poor brute! it looks uncommon thin;
They call it thoroughbred, but all must own
The animal is more like thorough bone.
But, after all, its backers show their gumption,
The creature's in a galloping consumption;
And though for many months it cannot last,
It all the symptoms shows of going fast.
They're off! they're off! oh, what a slapping pace!
Here's the perfection of the human race.
That rider will be thrown, 'tis very plain,
The only chance now left him is the _mane_:
The race is over, and the sport is up;
We'll leave them to enjoy their stakes and cup.
Now for the wine—the hamper let's unpack,
The glasses can be ready in a crack.
Oh dear! look here! this is a sad to-do,
During the run the wine's been running too;
And shan't I get into a pretty scrape,
This borrow'd cloak is done for with the cape;
Of my best wine this is a pretty clearer,
I wish it were my cheaper, not Madeira.
Well, let us have a glass of port instead;
We can't, here's all the crust upon the bread.
'Tis useless now to grumble at our fate,
We came to Ascot for the cup and plate;
While to our lot it has but chanced to fall,
That we see nothing in them after all!
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