v MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. 



Bob Johnson, upon Eeveller, takes the lead from full a score ; 

 And the " big coach horse," Antonio, goes lumbering to the fore : 

 Three cheers for bold St. Patrick! three cheers for young Bill 



Scott ! 

 As mounted on Jack Spigot, he first draws the winning lot. 



" Two hundred pounds to one I'll bet ;" see ! listening Jackson 



mourns ; 



Lame Theodore has felt the spurs, and quite forgot his corns ; 

 Now, Jackson, keep him going, he's in front at the hill top 

 By Jove ! he'se half a length to spare ; well, Powlett, won't you 



swap ? 



" All Harlequin," on Barefoot, makes Watts's heart right merry ; 

 Brave Brutandorf has owned the stride of Smolensko's best son, 



Jerry ; 



'JVIongst twenty-nine competitors, young Memnon leads the van ; 

 While his jockey's face of triumph seems to breathe a " Catch who 



can." 



George Nelson, on Tarrare, beats Mulatto through the mud ; 



The " weather clerk" laid fearful odds, and his hopes crushed in the 



bud: 



False starts will floor bold Mameluke, spite all that Sam can do ;; 

 Who'd mind his temper going, if his legs would but go too ? 



Thunder, and rain, and lightning, may well sound an alarm ; 

 Great Priam's beat by Birmingham, at the road near Intake Farm ; 

 There Chorister and Saddler struggle head and head along, 

 And the winning Duke may thank his stars Day senior " came it 

 strong." 



James Robinson, on Margrave, taps casks of Ackworth ale ; 

 Physician can't dose Gully, nor Birdcatcher salt his tail : 

 Sam Darling lets out Buckingham : at the corner of the Stand, 

 Touchstone has headed Chasse, with a gallant race in hand. 



With her Oaken crown upon her, the white-faced Queen flies in ; 

 Next, the chesnut caravanner dares the northern mare to win : 

 There's Bill Scott rolling in the ditch, and crippled in the crush ; 

 'Twixt " The Banker" and The Doctor, Sam Day effects his rush. 



Scott makes the pace terrific : five lengths ahead he's gone, 

 Like a greased flash of lightning, on Lord Chesterfield's Don John : 

 See, locked in mortal combat, Euclid and Charles abreast ; 

 They may shout " Dead heat !" but of it the chesnut had the best. 



Go it, you cripple, Launcelot ! Your leg will give way soon : 

 No ! Holmes is true to orders, and pulls double on Maroon : 

 Coronation, stretch your muscles ; sure some " Cockney butler" 



trained thee ! 

 Hadst thou been ten days at Pigburn, no Satirist could have pained 



thee. 



