SEA SPRAY &> SMOKE DRIFT 



Past The Fly, falling back on the right, and 



The Gull, giving way on the left. 

 Past Tamworth, who feels the whip smite, and 



Whose sides by the rowels are cleft ; 

 Where Tim and the chestnut together 



Still bear of the battle the brunt, 

 As if eight stone twelve were a feather 



He comes with a rush to the front. 



Tim Whiffler may yet prove a Tartar, 



And Bylong's the horse that can stay, 

 But Kean is in trouble — and Carter 



Is hard on the satin-skinn'd bay ; 

 And The Barb comes away unextended, 



Hard held, like a second Eclipse, 

 While behind, the hoof-thunder is blended 



With the whistling and crackling of whips. 



EPILOGUE 

 He wins ; yes, he wins upon paper, 



He hasn't yet won upon turf, 

 And these rhymes are but moonshine and 

 vapour, 

 Air-bubbles and spume from the surf. 

 So be it, at least they are given 



Free, gratis, for just what they're worth, 



144 



