Songs of Action, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle [chrome ebook reader .txt] 📗

And the devil and all at its worst;
But it's clear run in with the Cup to win
For the horse that is over it first.

So try it, my beauties, and fly it, my beauties,
Spider, Nuneaton, and Flo;
With a trip and a blunder there's one of them under,
Hark to it crashing below!
Is it the brown or the sorrel that's down?
The brown! It is Flo who is in!
And Spider with Chauncy, the pick of the fancy,
Is going full split for a win.

'Spider is winning!' 'Jo Chauncy is winning!'
'He's winning! He's winning! Bravo!'
The bookies are raving, the ladies are waving,
The Stand is all shouting for Jo.
The horse is clean done, but the race may be won
By the Newmarket lad on his back;
For the fire of the rider may bring an outsider
Ahead of a thoroughbred crack.

'Spider is winning!' 'Jo Chauncy is winning!'
It swells like the roar of the sea;
But Jo hears the drumming of somebody coming,
And sees a lean head by his knee.
'Nuneaton! Nuneaton! The Spider is beaten!'
It is but a spurt at the most;
For lose it or win it, they have but a minute
Before they are up with the post.

Nuneaton is straining, Nuneaton is gaining,
Neither will falter nor flinch;
Whips they are plying and jackets are flying,
They're fairly abreast to an inch.
'Crack em up! Let 'em go! Well ridden! Bravo!'
Gamer ones never were bred;
Jo Chauncy has done it! He's spurted! He's won it!'
The favourite's beat by a head!

Don't tell me of luck, for its judgment and pluck
And a courage that never will shirk;
To give your mind to it and know how to do it
And put all your heart in your work.
So here's to the Spider, the winning outsider,
With little Jo Chauncy up;
May they stay life's course, both jockey and horse,
As they stayed in the Farnshire Cup.

But it's possible that you are wondering what
May have happened to Farmer Brown,
And the old gray crock of Isonomy stock
Who was backed by the sharps from town.
She blew and she sneezed, she coughed and she wheezed,
She ran till her knees gave way.
But never a grumble at trip or at stumble
Was heard from her jock that day.

For somebody laid AGAINST the gray,
And somebody made a pile;
And Brown says he can make farming pay,
And he smiles a simple smile.
'Them sharps from town were riled,' says Brown;
'But I can't see why--can you?
For I said quite fair as I knew that mare,
And I proved my words was true.'


THE GROOM'S STORY


Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.
The big bay 'orse in the further stall--the one wot's next to you.
I've seen some better 'orses; I've seldom seen a wuss,
But 'e 'olds the bloomin' record, an' that's good enough for us.

We knew as it wa's in 'im. 'E's thoroughbred, three part,
We bought 'im for to race 'im, but we found 'e 'ad no 'eart;
For 'e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin' dignified,
It seemed a kind o' liberty to drive 'im or to ride;

For 'e never seemed a-thinkin' of what 'e 'ad to do,
But 'is thoughts was set on 'igher things, admirin' of the view.
'E looked a puffeck pictur, and a pictur 'e would stay,
'E wouldn't even switch 'is tail to drive the flies away.

And yet we knew 'twas in 'im, we knew as 'e could fly;
But what we couldn't git at was 'ow to make 'im try.
We'd almost turned the job up, until at last one day
We got the last yard out of 'im in a most amazin' way.

It was all along o' master; which master 'as the name
Of a reg'lar true blue sportman, an' always acts the same;
But we all 'as weaker moments, which master 'e 'ad one,
An' 'e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun.

I seed it in the stable yard--it fairly turned me sick -
A greasy, wheezy engine as can neither buck nor kick.
You've a screw to drive it forrard, and a screw to make it stop,
For it was foaled in a smithy stove an' bred in a blacksmith shop.

It didn't want no stable, it didn't ask no groom,
It didn't need no nothin' but a bit o' standin' room.
Just fill it up with paraffin an' it would go all day,
Which the same should be agin the law if I could 'ave my way.

Well, master took 'is motor-car, an' moted 'ere an' there,
A frightenin' the 'orses an' a poisonin' the air.
'E wore a bloomin' yachtin' cap, but Lor'! wot DID 'e know,
Excep' that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go?

An' then one day it wouldn't go. 'E screwed and screwed again,
But somethin' jammed, an' there 'e stuck in the mud of a country
lane.
It 'urt 'is pride most cruel, but what was 'e to do?
So at last 'e bade me fetch a 'orse to pull the motor through.

This was the 'orse we fetched 'im; an' when we reached the car,
We braced 'im tight and proper to the middle of the bar,
And buckled up 'is traces and lashed them to each side,
While 'e 'eld 'is 'ead so 'aughtily, an' looked most dignified.

Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained and vexed,
And 'e seemed to say, 'Well, bli' me! wot WILL they ask me next?
I've put up with some liberties, but this caps all by far,
To be assistant engine to a crocky motor-car!'

Well, master 'e was in the car, a-fiddlin' with the gear,
And the 'orse was meditatin', an' I was standin' near,
When master 'e touched somethin'--what it was we'll never know -
But it sort o' spurred the boiler up and made the engine go.

''Old 'ard, old gal!' says master, and 'Gently then!' says I,
But an engine won't 'eed coaxin' an' it ain't no use to try;
So first 'e pulled a lever, an' then 'e turned a screw,
But the thing kept crawlin' forrard spite of all that 'e could do.

And first it went quite slowly and the 'orse went also slow,
But 'e 'ad to buck up faster when the wheels began to go;
For the car kept crowdin' on 'im and buttin' 'im along,
And in less than 'alf a minute, sir, that 'orse was goin' strong.

At first 'e walked quite dignified, an' then 'e 'ad to trot,
And then 'e tried a canter when the pace became too 'ot.
'E looked 'is very 'aughtiest, as if 'e didn't 'e mind,
And all the time the motor-car was pushin' 'im be'ind.

Now, master lost 'is 'ead when 'e found 'e couldn't stop,
And 'e pulled a valve or somethin' an' somethin' else went pop,
An' somethin' else went fizzywiz, and in a flash, or less,
That blessed car was goin' like a limited express.

Master 'eld the steerin' gear, an' kept the road all right,
And away they whizzed and clattered--my aunt! it was a sight.
'E seemed the finest draught 'orse as ever lived by far,
For all the country Juggins thought 'twas 'im wot pulled the car.

'E was stretchin' like a grey'ound, 'e was goin' all 'e knew;
But it bumped an' shoved be'ind 'im, for all that 'e could do;
It butted 'im an' boosted 'im an' spanked 'im on a'ead,
Till 'e broke the ten-mile record, same as I already said.

Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.
The only time we ever found what that 'ere 'orse could do.
Some say it wasn't 'ardly fair, and the papers made a fuss,
But 'e broke the ten-mile record, and that's good enough for us.

You see that 'orse's tail, sir? You don't! No more do we,
Which really ain't surprisin', for 'e 'as no tail to see;
That engine wore it off 'im before master made it stop,
And all the road was littered like a bloomin' barber's shop.

And master? Well, it cured 'im. 'E altered from that day,
And come back to 'is 'orses in the good old-fashioned way.
And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by far
Is to 'int as 'ow you think 'e ought to keep a motor-car.


WITH THE CHIDDINGFOLDS


The horse is bedded down
Where the straw lies deep.
The hound is in the kennel;
Let the poor hound sleep!
And the fox is in the spinney
By the run which he is haunting,
And I'll lay an even guinea
That a goose or two is wanting
When the farmer comes to count them in the morning.

The horse is up and saddled;
Girth the old horse tight!
The hounds are out and drawing
In the morning light.
Now it's 'Yoick!' among the heather,
And it's 'Yoick!' across the clover,
And it's 'To him, all together!'
'Hyke a Bertha! Hyke a Rover!'
And the woodlands smell so sweetly in the morning.

'There's Termagant a-whimpering;
She whimpers so.'
'There's a young hound yapping!'
Let the young hound go!
But the old hound is cunning,
And it's him we mean to follow,
'They are running! They are running!
And it's 'Forrard to the hollo!'
For the scent is lying strongly in the morning.

'Who's the fool that heads him?'
Hold hard, and let him pass!
He's out among the oziers
He's clear upon the grass.
You grip his flanks and settle,
For the horse is stretched and straining,
Here's a game to test your mettle,
And a sport to try your training,
When the Chiddingfolds are running in the morning.

We're up by the Coppice
And we're down by the Mill,
We're out upon the Common,
And the hounds are running still.
You must tighten on the leather,