BRITISH TURF. 99 



Poll, Peggy, Cath'rine, Patty, Sue, 

 Descendants of old dames he knew, 

 All mourn your tutor, ancient Q, 

 The Star of Piccadilly. 



Old Nick, he wisk'd his tail so blue. 

 And grinn'd, and leer'd, and look'd askew— 

 " O ho !" says he, " I've got my Q, 

 The Star of Piccadilly." 



On wings of sulphur down he flew : 

 All London, take your last adieu — 

 There, there away he claws Old Q, 

 The Star of Piccadilly. 



And now, this may be said of Q — 

 That long he ran all folly thro'. 

 For ever seeking something new : 

 He neither car'd for me, nor you. 

 But, to engagements strictly true. 

 At last— he gave the devil his due ; 

 And died, a boy of eighty-two — 

 Poor Q of Piccadilly. 



The following appeared after his death : — 



OLD Q. 



To the popular tune of " Come listen awhile to my lay," &c. 



You've heard of the once sporting fame 



Of him who has now run his race — 

 I mean that blood staUion by name 



" Old Q." or some call'd him, " Your Grace." 

 No meeting in youth would he shun ; 



Nay the dog was so knowing and arch. 

 He was hang up ; at all was his fun ; 



And he tipp'd knowing Jockies— the March. 

 Sing tol de rol lol, &c. 



As fix'd as the starting post— he 



On Knavesmire and Epsom appear'd ; 



H 2 



