HIPPODROMANIA ? 



Where bullets whistle, and round shot whiz, 

 Hoofs trample, and blades flash bare, 



God send me an ending as fair as his 

 Who died in his stirrups there ! 



The wind has slumbered throughout the 



day. 

 Now a fitful gust springs over the bay, 

 My wandering thoughts no longer stray, 



I'll fix my overcoat buttons; 

 Secure my old hat as best I may 

 (And a shocking bad one it is, by the way), 

 Blow a denser cloud from my stunted clay, 

 And then, friend Bell, as the Frenchmen 

 say, 



We'll '*go back again to our muttons." 



There's a lull in the tumult on yonder hill. 

 And the clamour has grown less loud. 



Though the Babel of tongues is never still. 

 With the presence of such a crowd. 



The bell has rung. With their riders up 

 At the starting point they muster, 



The racers strip't for the " Melbourne Cup," 



All gloss and polish and lustre ; 



119 



