WE BEAT THE FAVOURITE 



And Giles on The Greyling came down at 

 the paling, 

 And I was left sailing in front of them all. 



I took them a burster, nor eased her nor 

 nursed her 

 Until the black Bullfinch led into the 

 plough, 

 And through the strong bramble we bored 

 with a scramble — 

 My cap was knock'd off by the hazel-tree 

 bough. 



Where furrows looked lighter I drew the rein 

 tighter — 

 Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of 

 white foam, 

 Her flanks mud-bespattered, a weak rail she 

 shattered — 

 We landed on turf with our heads turn'd 

 for home. 



Then crash'd a low binder, and then close 

 behind her 

 The sward to the strokes of the favourite 

 shook, 



211 



