Part 18

'I said to the jockey, 'Now, listen, my cocky, You watch as you're cantering down by the stand, I'll wait where that toff is and give you the office, You're only to win if I lift up my hand.'

'I then tried to back her -- 'What price is the Cracker?' 'Our books are all full, sir,' each bookie did swear; My mind, then, I made up, my fortune I played up I bet every shilling against my own mare.

'I strolled to the gateway, the mare in the straightway Was shifting and dancing, and pawing the ground, The boy saw me enter and wheeled for his canter, When a darned great mosquito came buzzing around.

'They breed 'em at Hexham, it's risky to vex 'em, They suck a man dry at a sitting, no doubt, But just as the mare passed, he fluttered my hair past, I lifted my hand, and I flattened him out.

'I was stunned when they started, the mare simply darted Away to the front when the flag was let fall, For none there could match her, and none tried to catch her -- She finished a furlong in front of them all.

'You bet that I went for the boy, whom I sent for The moment he weighed and came out of the stand -- 'Who paid you to win it? Come, own up this minute.' 'Lord love yer,' said he, 'why you lifted your hand.'

''Twas true, by St. Peter, that cursed 'muskeeter' Had broke me so broke that I hadn't a brown, And you'll find the best course is when dealing with horses To win when you're able, and KEEP YOUR HANDS DOWN.

The Great Calamity

MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst When summer days were hot, And bided there wi' Jock McThirst, A brawny brother Scot. Gude Faith! They made the whisky fly, Like Highland chieftains true, And when they'd drunk the beaker dry They sang 'We are nae fou!'

'There is nae folk like oor ain folk, Sae gallant and sae true.' They sang the only Scottish joke Which is, 'We are nae fou.'

Said bold McThirst, 'Let Saxons jaw Aboot their great concerns, But bonny Scotland beats them a', The land o' cakes and Burns, The land o' partridge, deer, and grouse, Fill up your glass, I beg, There's muckle whusky i' the house, Forbye what's in the keg.'

And here a hearty laugh he laughed, 'Just come wi' me, I beg.' MacFierce'un saw with pleasure daft A fifty-gallon keg.

'Losh, man, that's grand,' MacFierce'un cried, 'Saw ever man the like, Now, wi' the daylight, I maun ride To meet a Southron tyke, But I'll be back ere summer's gone, So bide for me, I beg, We'll make a grand assault upon Yon deevil of a keg.'

. . . . .

MacFierce'un rode to Whiskeyhurst, When summer days were gone, And there he met with Jock McThirst Was greetin' all alone. 'McThirst what gars ye look sae blank? Have all yer wits gane daft? Has that accursed Southron bank Called up your overdraft? Is all your grass burnt up wi' drouth? Is wool and hides gone flat?' McThirst replied, 'Gude friend, in truth, 'Tis muckle waur than that.'

'Has sair misfortune cursed your life That you should weep sae free? Is harm upon your bonny wife, The children at your knee? Is scaith upon your house and hame?' McThirst upraised his head: 'My bairns hae done the deed of shame -- 'Twere better they were dead.

'To think my bonny infant son Should do the deed o' guilt -- HE LET THE WHUSKEY SPIGOT RUN, AND A' THE WHUSKEY'S SPILT!'

. . . . .

Upon them both these words did bring A solemn silence deep, Gude faith, it is a fearsome thing To see two strong men weep.

Come-by-Chance

As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary -- For the plot was void of interest -- 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact, There I learnt the true location, distance, size, and population Of each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act.

And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee, And that Booleroi and Bumble get their letters twice a year, Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector, Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear.

But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me, Quite by chance I came across it -- 'Come-by-Chance' was what I read; No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it, Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid.

I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northward Till I come by chance across it, and I'll straightway settle down, For there can't be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worry Where the telegraph don't reach you nor the railways run to town.

And one's letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges, Where a wiry young Australian leads a pack-horse once a week, And the good news grows by keeping, and you're spared the pain of weeping Over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek.

But I fear, and more's the pity, that there's really no such city, For there's not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know, 'Come-by-chance', be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour, It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go.

. . . . .

Though we work and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle, All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free; Man may weary and importune, but the fickle goddess Fortune Deals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be.