The course was the devil!  A start on the level,
   And then a stiff breather uphill;
A bank at the top with a four-foot drop,
   And a bullfinch down by the mill. 
A stretch of straight from the Whittlesea gate,
   Then up and down and up;
And the mounts that stay through Farnshire clay
   May bid for the Farnshire Cup.

The tipsters were touting, the bookies were shouting
   ‘Bar one, bar one, bar one!’
With a glint and a glimmer of silken shimmer
   The field shone bright in the sun,
When Farmer Brown came riding down: 
   ’I hain’t much time to spare,
But I’ve entered her name, so I’ll play out the game,
   On the back o’ my old gray mare.

’You never would think ’er a thoroughbred clinker,
   There’s never a judge that would;
Each leg be’ind ’as a splint, you’ll find,
   And the fore are none too good. 
She roars a bit, and she don’t look fit,
   She’s moulted ’alf ’er ’air;
But—­’ He smiled in a way that seemed to say,
   That he knew that old gray mare.

And the bookies laughed and the bookies chaffed,
   ‘Who backs the mare?’ cried they. 
‘A hundred to one!’ ‘It’s done—­and done!’
   ‘We’ll take that price all day.’ 
’What if the mare is shedding hair! 
   What if her eye is wild! 
We read her worth and her pedigree birth
   In the smile that her owner smiled.’

And the whisper grew and the whisper flew
   That she came of Isonomy stock. 
‘Fifty to one!’ ’It’s done—­and done! 
   Look at her haunch and hock! 
Ill-groomed!  Why yes, but one may guess
   That that is her owner’s guile.’ 
Ah, Farmer Brown, the sharps from town,
   Have read your simple smile!

They’ve weighed him in.  ’Now lose or win,
   I’ve money at stake this day;
Gee-long, my sweet, and if we’re beat,
   We’ll both do all we may!’
He joins the rest, they line abreast,
   ‘Back Leah!  Mavis up!’
The flag is dipped and the field is slipped,
   Full split for the Farnshire Cup.

Christopher Davis is leading on Mavis,
   Spider is waiting on Flo;
Boadicea is gaining on Leah,
   Irish Nuneaton lies low;
Robin is tailing, his wind has been failing,
   Son of the Sea’s going fast: 
So crack on the pace for it’s anyone’s race,
   And the winner’s the horse that can last.

Chestnut and bay, and sorrel and gray,
   See how they glimmer and gleam! 
Bending and straining, and losing and gaining,
   Silk jackets flutter and stream;
They are over the grass as the cloud shadows pass,
   They are up to the fence at the top;
It’s ‘hey then!’ and over, and into the clover,
   There wasn’t one slip at the drop.

They are all going still; they are round by the mill,
   They are down by the Whittlesea gate;
Leah’s complaining, and Mavis is gaining,
   And Flo’s catching up in the straight. 
Robin’s gone wrong, but the Spider runs strong,
   He sticks to the leader like wax;
An utter outsider, but look at his rider —
   Jo Chauncy, the pick of the cracks!