The Amateur Tout's Lament.

Observer, Volume XV, Issue 796, 31 March 1894, Page 13

The Amateur Tout's Lament.

I fancied I was pretty smart, At picking 1 winners mighty keen; I thought I knew the roll by heart, But the game has cost me my last ' bean. I had the snuggest little place, The best of billets in the town ; But now I'm left without a trace Of even one poor solitary ' brown.' No Chinese puzzle's made as yet To drive me mad as any Turk, As the task those trainer fellows set A chap who tries to tout the work. On the course at night we often ' dossed,' Besoaked with dew on cold, damp sward. But no fat * div.' as yet has crossed My anxious palm as ' pluck's ' reward. With hand on 'stop,' I've watched each ' prad,' As he canter'd by from post to post : He's off at ' top ' half way between : I'm 'had': There's another ' go ';to the list I've lost. How many ' trials ' I've ' copped,' and dreamed I'd got a real ' moral ' on at last ; But realised that things were not all they seemed. When I saw my ' good thing ' finish last Again, I've seen some training on the tracks, A cabby's shafts should be their 'place'; You'd think, tho' gailopped in a field of 'hacks,* Their time 'd never come, to win a race. But, wonder of all wonders, on the day, These dead 'nsfrom the grave are raised; From B tart to finish — they're winners 'all the way,' And all the 'cunning ones' looked on amazed. And so the game goes on, and I — l'm sick; My pocket, too, 'tis quite ' cleaned out,' For not a ' blooming ' winner could I ' pick,' Through all the months I've been a ' tout.' But the ' cruellest rub of all,' to tell, Is when I thought I knew a lot ; I ' planked ' the ' pieces ' down — and ' fell,' Whilst all the clique had made a ' pot.' No, touting's not the ' game ' it ought to be; I'm satisfied of that ; I'll give it best ; Those trainer ' blokes ' are all too smart for me, And bo's that puzzle of the track—' time test.' I'll go back to my graft— the bench ; Of trainers, jocks, and racers, I've enough ; I've got to study now the game — ' retrench,' Until I get me back once more my vanished stuff. — Eemington.