So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water,
Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe;
And we shout,'At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for: They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle 's over now!'
And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features, Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask:
'Not sure,' he said; keep quiet,
more, I guess, they 'll try it Here's damnation to the cut-throats!' then he handed me his flask,
DEDICATED BY A CONTRIBUTOR TO THE COLLEGIAN, 1830, TO THE EDITORS OF THE HARVARD ADVOCATE, 18761
"T WAS on the famous trotting-ground, The betting men were gathered round From far and near; the cracks' were there Whose deeds the sporting prints declare: The swift g. m., Old Hiram's nag, The fleet s. h., Dan Pfeiffer's brag, With these a third- and who is he That stands beside his fast b. g. ? Budd Doble, whose catarrhal name So fills the nasal trump of fame. There too stood many a noted steed Of Messenger and Morgan breed; Green horses also, not a few; Unknown as yet what they could do; And all the hacks that know so well The scourgings of the Sunday swell.
Blue are the skies of opening day; The bordering turf is green with May;
1 The poem was read at a dinner of the editors of the Harvard Advocate, a literary magazine published by undergraduates,
'Bring forth the horse!' Alas! he showed Not like the one Mazeppa rode; Scant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky- kneed,
The wreck of what was once a steed, Lips thin, eyes hollow, stiff in joints; Yet not without his knowing points. The sexton laughing in his sleeve, As if 't were all a make-believe, Led forth the horse, and as he laughed Unhitched the breeching from a shaft, Unclasped the rusty belt beneath, Drew forth the snaffle from his teeth, Slipped off his head-stall, set him free From strap and rein, - a sight to see !
So worn, so lean in every limb, It can't be they are saddling him! It is! his back the pig-skin strides And flaps his lank, rheumatic sides; With look of mingled scorn and mirth They buckle round the saddle-girth; With horsy wink and saucy toss A youngster throws his leg across, And so, his rider on his back, They lead him, limping, to the track, Far up behind the starting-point, To limber out each stiffened joint.
As through the jeering crowd he past, One pitying look Old Hiram cast; 'Go it, ye cripple, while ye can!' Cried out unsentimental Dan;
A Fast-Day dinner for the crows!' Budd Doble's scoffing shout arose.
Slowly, as when the walking-beam
First feels the gathering head of steam, 100 With warning cough and threatening wheeze
The stiff old charger crooks his knees; At first with cautious step sedate, As if he dragged a coach of state; He's not a colt; he knows full well That time is weight and sure to tell; No horse so sturdy but he fears The handicap of twenty years.
'Go!'-Through his ear the summons stung As if a battle-trump had rung; The slumbering instincts long unstirred Start at the old familiar word;
It thrills like flame through every limb, What mean his twenty years to him? The savage blow his rider dealt Fell on his hollow flanks unfelt; The spur that pricked his staring hide Unheeded tore his bleeding side; Alike to him are spur and rein, He steps a five-year-old again!
Before the quarter pole was past, Old Hiram said, 'He's going fast.' Long ere the quarter was a half,
The chuckling crowd had ceased to laugh;
Tighter his frightened jockey clung As in a mighty stride he swung,
The gravel flying in his track,
His neck stretched out, his ears laid back, His tail extended all the while
Behind him like a rat-tail file!
Off went a shoe, — away it spun, Shot like a bullet from a gun; The quaking jockey shapes a prayer
From scraps of oaths he used to swear; 140. He drops his whip, he drops his rein, He clutches fiercely for a mane; He'll lose his hold — he sways and reels He'll slide beneath those trampling heels! The knees of many a horseman quake, The flowers on many a bonnet shake, And shouts arise from left and right, 'Stick on! Stick on!' Hould tight! Hould tight!'
'Cling round his neck and don't let go — That pace can't hold - there! steady! whoa!'
But like the sable steed that bore The spectral lover of Lenore,
His nostrils snorting foam and fire, No stretch his bony limbs can tire; And now the stand he rushes by,
And Stop him!-stop him!' is the cry. Stand back! he 's only just begun — He's having out three heats in one!
'Don't rush in front! he'll smash your
And off they spring, and round they go, The fast ones doing all they know.' Look! twice they follow at his heels, As round the circling course he wheels, And whirls with him that clinging boy Like Hector round the walls of Troy; Still on, and on, the third time round! They 're tailing off! they 're losing ground! Budd Doble's nag begins to fail! Dan Pfeiffer's sorrel whisks his tail! And see! in spite of whip and shout, Old Hiram's mare is giving out! Now for the finish! at the turn, The old horse- all the rest astern - Comes swinging in, with easy trot; By Jove! he's distanced all the lot!
That trot no mortal could explain; Some said, Old Dutchman come again!' Some took his time, at least they tried, But what it was could none decide; One said he could n't understand What happened to his second hand; One said 2.10; that could n't be More like two twenty-two or three; Old Hiram settled it at last; The time was two too dee-vel-ish fast!'
I BELIEVE that the copies of verses I've
Like Scheherezade's tales, are a thousand
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