_HEAD GROOM B-LF-R LOQ._:--
Kept in! Yes, by thunder! Be 't prudence or blunder,
Gov's fondness for _Tithe_, or bad weather, or what,
You're kept in the stable, though fit, ay, and able
To lead the whole field and to win by a lot.
A hunter I never bestrode half as clever!
_Tithe_? Pooh! _He_'s not in it, my beauty, with you.
You've breed, style, and mettle, and look in rare fettle.
If _I_ had to settle, you know what _I_'d do!
These gentlemen-riders deem all are outsiders
Save them: as if gent ever made A 1 jock!
Ah! ADAM L. GORDON,[1] poor chap, had a word on
Such matters. I'll warrant _he_ sat like a rock,
And went like a blizzard. Yes, beauty, it _is_ hard
To eat off your head in the stable like this.
Too long you have idled; but wait till you're bridled!
_The_ hunt of the season I swear you won't miss,
It has been hard weather, although, beauty, whether
'Tis that altogether your chance that postponed,
Or whether Boss SOLLY committed a folly--
No matter! A comelier crack he ne'er owned,
Although 'tis I say it who shouldn't. The way it
Has snowed and has frozen may be his excuse;
But when you're once started, deer-limbed, lion-hearted,
I warrant, my beauty, you'll go like the deuce.
"A lean head and fiery, strong quarters, and wiry,
A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb,"
That's GORDON's description of _Iseult_. (All whip shun
When riding such rattlers, and trust to the curb.)
That mare was your sort, lad. I guess there'll be sport, lad,
When _you_ make strong running, and near the last jump.
And you, when extended, look "bloodlike and splendid."
Ah! poor LINDSAY GORDON was sportsman and trump.
I see your sleek muzzle in front! It will puzzle
Your critics, my boy, to pick holes in you then:
There's howling "HISTORICUS,"--he's but a sorry cuss!
WEG, too, that grandest of all grand old men;
He's ridden some races; of chances and paces,
Of crocks _versus_ cracks he did ought to be judge.
He sees you are speedy; when MORLEY sneers "Weedy,"
Or LAB doubts your staying, WEG knows it's all fudge!
We're biding our time, lad. Your fettle is prime, lad;
Though we're frost-bound now, open weather must come,
At least after Easter; and, beauty, _when_ we stir.
And forge to the front, lad, we'll just make things hum.
In spite of much ruction concerning Obstruction,
I wish--_in a whisper_--we'd started before,
And, forcing the running, discarding all cunning,
Romped in--_as we will_--'midst a general roar!
[Footnote 1: ADAM LINDSAY GORDON, the ardent, horse-loving Australian
poet.]
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