H! who will over the Downs

with me?"

Over Epsom Downs, and away—

The Sun has got a tear in his

eye,

And the morning mists are light

and high;—

We shall have a splendid day.

And splendid it is, by all that's hot!—

A regular blaze on the hill;

And the turf rebounds from the light-shod heel

And the tapering spokes of the delicate wheel

With a springy-velvety sort of a feel

That fairly invites "a spill."

Splendid it is; but we musnt stop,

The folks are beginning to run,—

Is yonder a cloud that covers the course?

No, it's fifty thousand—man and horse—

Come out to see the fun.

So—just in time for the trial spurt;

The jocks are cantering in,—

We shall have the leaders round in a crack,

And a hundred voices are shouting "back,"

But nobody stirs a pin!

There isn't a soul will budge

So much as an inch from his place,

Tho' the hue of the Masters scarlet coat

Is a joke compared to his face.

To the ropes! to the ropes!"—Now stick to your

hold;—

A breezy flutter of crimson and gold,

And the crowd are swept aside,—

You can see the caps as they fall and rise

Like a swarm of variegated flies

Coming glittering up the ride;

To the ropes, for your life!" Here they come—there

they go—"

The exquisite graceful things!

In the very sport of their strength and pride;

Ha! that's the Favourite—look at his,

It suggests the idea of wings:

And the glossy neck is arched and firm

In spite of the flying pace;

The jockey sticks to his back like glue,

And his hand is quick and his eye is true,

And whatever skill and pluck can do

They will do to win the race.

The colt with the bright broad chest,

Will run to win to day—

There's fame and fortune in every bound

And a hundred and fifty thousand pound

Staked on the gallant Bay!

"Theyre off!"....

And away at the very first start,

"Hats down! hats down in front!

"Hats down, you sir in the wide-awake!"—

The tighten'd barriers quiver and shake

But they bravely bear the brunt.

A hush, like death, is over the crowd;

D'you hear that distant cry?—

Then hark how it gathers, far and near,

One rolling, ringing, rattling cheer

As the race goes dashing by,

And away with the hats and caps in the air,

And the horses seem to fly...

Forward! forward! at railway speed,

There's one that has fairly taken the lead

In a style that can scarce miscarry;

Oyer and on, like a flash of light,

And now his colours are coming in sight,

Favourite! Favourite!—scarlet and white—

He'll win, by the Lord Harry!!

If he can but clear the Corner, I say,

The Derby is lost and won—

It's an awful shave, but he'll do the trick,

Now! Now or never—he's passing it quick.—

He's round!...

No, he isn't; he's broken his neck,

And the jockey his collar bone:

And the whirlwind race is over his head,

Without stopping to ask if he's living or dead,—

Was there ever such rudeness known?

He fell like a trump in the foremost place—

He died with the rushing wind on his face—

At the wildest bound of his glorious pace—

In the mad exulting revel;

He left his shoes to his son and heir,

His hocks to a champagne dealer at Ware,

A lock of his hair

To the Lady-Mare,

And his hoofs and his tail———to the———!