POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2253, 22 June 1881, Page 4

POETRY.

LINES. BY A. L. GORDON. To tb.'j courtesy of Mr W. Trainor, of the vVarjioa Inn, Bedruth, who was given the original manuscript, wo (Melbourne “ Sports man”) arc indebted for the following verses, which bs yet have not appeared in any edition of tho works of this lamented poet and aoorlsman : VER3E3 INSPIRED BY MY. O.Ln “ OLD BLACK PIPE.” Ay ! many a sport old Homer names,. By Achilles hold “at his little games,'” On the banks of the swift Seaman der; And Pindor sings the Olympian deeds Of the i rory c ira and tho milk-white steeds Of Catullus or Lj Binder How clouds of dust aloft were spum’d By wheels that grazed the goals ae they turn’d. Till the bright sparks flicker’d redly ; How the strains of mingled mirth and fury That swoll’d in the chant of tho “Morituri,” Proclaimed when tho sports were deadly. Ah 1 little wo oared for classic lore, When Greek was a task and Latin a boro, In school-days that ore deemed of yore ; And who will venture to chide us If better we lov’d tho play-field green, And the blackthorn hedge that served as a screen In the mills that settled our boyish spleen. From tho tutor’s eyes to hide ns ? Who envies the bygone days of old ? They never wore half so good as we’re told. Their loss is not worth bewailing. We have seen Young Camel’s slashing stride, And Archer’s rush, and Mormon’s pride, And the doer-like bound of Inglesiao At “ five foot three " of a paling. We’ve seen how the sides of Fa’eon bled. And tho hones of Arnma’s backers fled, When the Bose of Denmark shot ahead, And never again they caught her : How false were the shouts of “ Barwon’a first,” When sho came “ from the distance home ” with a burst, And the favourite’s friends devoutly cursed Old Premier’s gamest daughter. What cheers for King Alfred’s white-faced . son Were heard, when tho Western chase was done. And the judge’s verdict given. While Vandyke fell in the beaten ranks, And the red spots showed on the mare’s great flanks How vainly the steel was driven. And with anxious longing we wait the day When the prads must strip for the coming fray, To be criticised in rotation ; But to spot the winner we will try. For a mist obscures our mental eye. And wo have not tho power of prophecy, Nor the spirit of divination. Yet in fancy’s glass we may scan the course. And hear the bookmaker’s challenge hoarse, The odds incessantly dunning ; Wo may watch the starter’s signal fall. And the nags may picture, one and all, For the Cup in a cluster running. And mark, as they sweep before the stand. How Ebor is going well in band, And Banker is pulling doable ; How longer each moment grows tho tail. As one by one the outsiders fail, And get into grief and trouble. How Trainor pulls out of Waldook’s track. And Morrison steadies the Caulfield crack, While up on the right comes the rose and black, Like an eagle that scents the plunder; How round the turn they jostle and crush. And Simpson clears his whip for a rush, And then on the crowd comes a lull and a hush, And then a roar like thunder. And when Beaufort collars the Western Pet, Then Greek meets Greek, unoonquered yet, And tho tug of war commences ; As stride for stride, with the stroke of one— Like greyhounds running with couples on— Together they fly their fences. There’s “ Vates,” and “ Rhyming Richard,” too. Can tell much better than I or yon What nags arc likely the trick to do. Nor will I their judgments sneer at. If the gift of second-sight were mine, I’d make my fortune, and then “ I’d shine,” But I haven’t got it, and so I’ll sign,” “ Qtri Meruit Palmam Febat.”