THE HORSE RACE

I own the Simile is trite,
But then it is correctly right;
For ev'ry learned Critic knows
That on all-fours it glibly goes,
When the ever-varying strife
That gives activity to Life,

Is in its proper time and place,
Compar'd to what is call'd a RACE.
For when we see each high-bred Horse
Stretching for Conquest on the Course,
What does he but man's toil display
Through ev'ry hour of ev'ry day.
-But we postpone the moral strain,-
And call the Reader to the PLAIN.
Where the assembled croud are met

To wrangle, jangle, and to bet.

'Tis not to see the noble Steed

Pace o'er the Down with matchless speed;

'Tis not to view the Rider's art

When from the Goal he's call'd to start;
Or where the contest may begin,

That makes it doubtful who shall win ;'Tis who, in honourable way,

Shall of his neighbour make a prey:
For this same curious, motly meeting
Is somewhat of a Race for cheating.

JACK TRIMBUSH, in the country bred,
To nothing useful turned his head;
Cock-fighting, Racing, and the Games
That sober Prudence never names,
He long had practis'd, and was able
To figure at a Billiard Table.

An Uncle left him an estate

That was not either small or great;
But it was thought to bring him clear,
At least a thousand pounds a year ;—
And, as 'twould be unjust to spare
The praise where he can claim a share,
Of that he took especial care.

He sav'd what others give in bounty,

And though he gambled round the county, 'Twas thought the conscientious sinner,

Somehow contriv'd to be a winner.

Now JACK was making to the Post
The busy scene of Won and Lost,
When to all those he saw around,
He cried,' I offer fifty pound,

That to yon gambling place I get
• Before you all.'- -DEATH took the Bet.
The 'Squire's Mare was Merry Joan,
And DEATH rode, Scrambling Skeleton.
They started, nor much time they lost
Before they reach'd the gambling Host:
But e'er they pass'd the betting Pole,
Which was the terminating Goal,
O'er a blind Fiddler Joan came down ;
With fatal force poor JACK was thrown,
When a stone, on the verdure laid,

Prov'd harder than the Rider's head.
—DEATH wav'd aloft his dart, and fled.

Upon the ground JACK senseless lay,
And turn'd the bus'ness of the day:
Horses and Jockies were forgot,
'Twas whether He would live or not.

Says HIGH-GAME, 'I'll lay five to one,

And who, among you, answers-DONE? 'That with JACK TRIMBUSH 'tis all over, 'And that he never will recover.'

}