324 THE LUKE LIGHTWOOD LEGACY. 



THE HIGH-METTLED RACER. 



See the course thronged with gazers ! the sports are 



begun ; 

 The confusion but hear ! "I'll bet you, sir" "Done ! 



done !" 



Ten thousand strange clamors resound far and near ; 

 Lords, hawkers and jockeys assail the tired ear. 

 While with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest, 

 Pampered, prancing and pleased, his nose touching his 



breast, 



Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate, 

 The high-mettled racer starts first for the plate. 



Now Reynard's turned out, and o'er hedge and ditch 



rush 



Hounds, horses and huntsmen, all hard at his brush ; 

 They run him at length, and they have him at bay, 

 And by scent and by view cheat a long, tedious way ; 

 While alike born for sports of the field and the course, 

 Always sure to come through, a staunch and fleet 



horse, 



When fairly run down the fox yields up his breath, 

 The high-mettled racer is in at the death. 



Grown aged, used up, and turned out of the stud, 

 Lame, spavined, and wind-galled, but yet with some 



blood, 



While knowing postillions his pedigree trace, 

 Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire gained 



this race, 



And what matches he won, too, the ostler's count o'er ; 

 As they loiter their time at some hedge alehouse door ; 

 While the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides 



goad, 

 The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road. 



