The shoppy slang of Turf is hushed to-day, 
No cry of " Tinman won, sir, by a head ! " 
The dull November seems to all more grey, 
For Archer's dead ! 
The glories of the Downs are shadowed o'er, 
'Twill seem a link has snapped in Memory's chain. 
When Epsom comes without the deafening roar, 
" Archer again ! " 
The punter mourns the man who brought him luck : 
Who, heedless of the Ring's resounding din, 
Would bursting come from out the hopeless ruck. 
And land a win ! 
Farewell, best jockey ever seen on course ; 
Thy backers weep to think by Fate's decree 
The rider pale upon his great white horse 
Hath beaten thee ! 
—Edgar Lee. 
