IN MEMORIAM.

Tuapeka Times, Volume XXV, Issue 1996, 10 May 1893, Page 3

IN MEMORIAM.

The following lines were recently composed in England, and sent to a friend in Auckland by the well-known ex-New Zealand sport, Mr W. W. Robinson. M. O'Brien and"Wally" Clifford died about the same time : — The Autumn leaves are falling fast in golden, ruddy shower. Beneath the mountains of North Wales stands many a ruined tower. I sit upon an ivied wall of Conway's castle bold, Where once there lived a Prince of Wales, in merry days of old. And as I read New Zealand's mail, it makes me sad to-day, For grim King Death has been.at work, and called poor Mick away. Last month I read of Clifford's death, and as I think of him —

I see the two across the blue, though tears my eyes bedim. How often have I seen them both, past-masters in their art, Come with a run, just win a head, or jump off from the start. And then I" think of one great race I saw these horsemen ride, 'Twas when these two both homeward flew, and finished side by side. The sun shines bright at Fleinington, the autumn meeting's on, The lawn is thronged with ladies, fair, elite, and real bon ton. But hark ! the saddling bell rings out, I must secure a place To see this two-mile weight for age — the Loch Plate is the race. With Tom Lamond and Dan O'Brien I get a seat at last, Almost behind the judge's box, as Watson canters past. Now Watson pulls up at the post, the Ixoraes get in line, * The flag goes down, the gong is heard, they'll break the twenty-nine. They're round the bend, they're iv the straight, Mick seems in earnest now, His hands are shaking Carbine up, with a prick or two, I trow. Now Wally Clifford takes a look, not easy in his mind Lest Musket's son has too much left by waiting thus behind. The big bay colt has gripped the bit, and, racing kind and true, He gains on Lochiel inch by inch as Musket colts oft do. Wall Clifford takes another glance, and then he

draws his flail, For Carbine's on his quarters now — Mick's got Wall on the rail. Oh, Lochiel, you are in trouble, for you've been off your feed, And when you meet a Carbine to grub well you will need. Slick's hands go like a piston rod, his heels are hard at work, Wall Clifford's whip comes down again, he knows Lochiel won't shirk. Carbine is at your head, Lochiel, the whip cannot fall true, So Clifford shif ts it to his left and then again sets to. Then Clifford mutters to himself : " I wish, old boy, you'd fed, " If I can make Mick draw his whip, I'll yet win by ahead." And so he does a bit of kid, just for a stride or two, And then gets hard on Lochicl's ribs, what else could jockey do ? But Mick sits down with band and heel, and drives the bay along, Right on the post he wins a head, and thus I end my song. A laurel wreath each one will bear within my

memory, 'Twas like a race you read about, but very seldom see. No more they'll ride in Cup or Plate to 'get the top-weight home j No more they'll wait all down the straight till to the stand they come ; No more they'll coax a nervous colt and make him take the bit ; No more jump off in half-mile spurt, no more a sluggard hit. No more they'll hear the starter's voice, no more the layer's yell ; No more the final orders get, no more the saddling bell. No more -will Wall the yellow wear, nor Miok the black so true ; No more the magpie jacket don, the cap of scarlet hue ; No more, no more they'll weigh too much, no more they'll weigh too light ; The post is past, they've scaled at last— let's hope it is "All right."