"But none can outlast her, and few travel faster,

She strides in her work clean away from The Drag, You hold her and sit her, she couldn't be fitter,

Whenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag.

"And p'rhaps the green jacket, at odds though they back it,
May fall, or there's no knowing what may turn up.
The mare is quite ready,-sit still and ride steady;
Keep cool, and I think you may just win the cup."

Dark-brown, with tan muzzle, just stripped for the tussle,
Stood Iseult, arching her neck to the curb;
A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry,
A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb.

Some parting injunction, bestow'd with great unction,
I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce;
When Reginald Murray, full tilt on White Surrey,
Came down in a hurry to start us at once.

"Keep back in the yellow! Come up on Othello!
Hold hard on the chestnut!
Keep back, there, on Spartan!

Turn round on The Drag!

Back, you, sir, in tartan!

So, steady there, easy," and down went the flag.

We started, and Kerry made strong running on Mermaid,
Through furrows that led to the first stake-and-bound;
The crack, half extended, looked bloodlike and splendid,
Held wide on the right where the headland was sound.

I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle,
Before her two-thirds of the field got away.
All through the wet pasture where floods of the last year
Still loitered, they clotted my crimson with clay.

The fourth fence, a wattle, floored Monk and Bluebottle;
The Drag came to grief at the blackthorn and ditch,
The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover,

The lane stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire Witch.
She passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock Sparrow,
And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone wall;
And Giles on The Greyling came down at the paling,
And I was left sailing in front of them all.

I took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed her,
Until the black bullfinch led into the plough,

And through the strong bramble we bored with a scramble-
My cap was knocked off by the hazel-tree bough.

Where furrows looked lighter, I drew the rein tighter-
Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of white foam,
Her flanks mud-bespattered, a weak rail she shattered-
We landed on turf with our heads turned for home.

Then crashed a low binder, and then close behind her
The sward to the strokes of the favorite shook,
His rush roused her mettle, yet ever so little

She shorten'd her stride as we raced at the brook.

She rose when I hit her. I saw the stream glitter,
A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee:
Between sky and water, The Clown came and caught her;
The space that he cleared was a caution to see.
And forcing the running, discarding all cunning,
A length to the front went the rider in green;
A long strip of stubble, and then the big double,
Two stiff flights of rails, with a quickset between.
She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her,
I found my hands give to her strain on the bit;
She rose when The Clown did-our silks, as we bounded,
Brush'd lightly! our stirrups clash'd loud as we lit.

A rise, steeply sloping, a fence with stone coping,
The last we diverged round the base of the hill
His path was the nearer, his leap was the clearer,
I flogg'd up the straight, and he led sitting still.

;

She came to his quarter, and on still I brought her,

And up to his girth, to his breastplate she drew,
A short prayer from Neville just reached me-"The Devil!"
He mutter'd-lock'd level the hurdles we flew.

A hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd careering,

All sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely heard;

"The Green wins!" "The Crimson!" The multitude swims on, And figures are blended and features are blurred.

"The horse is her master!"

"The green forges past her!"

"The Clown will outlast her!" "The Clown wins!" The

Clown!"

The white railing races with all the white faces,

The chestnut outpaces, outstretches the brown.

On still past the gateway she strains in the straight way
Still struggles "The Clown " by a short neck at most;
He swerves, the green scourges, the stand rocks and surges,
And flashes and verges, and flits the white post.

Ay! so ends the tussle-I knew the tan muzzle

Was first, though the ring-men were yelling "Dead heat!"
A nose I could swear by, but Clark said, "The mare by
A short head." And that's how the favorite was beat.

A ROGUE AND A VAGABOND.

Abridged for Recitation by H. Barrett.

The "Ship at Stock?"-Lord, so it is—
Well, there, I must ha' been blind.
Here, landlord, bring us a pint out here,
If these good gents don't mind.

Look wormish, do I ?—and so would you
If you'd only ha' come my track,

A tramping it here from Gray's to-day
With this horgan on yer back.

How long have I been on the road?-Let's see

Why close upon forty year;

But only one year with the horgan, tho’,

Along o' this youngster here.

"Tis rather a longish time, no doubt,

Tho' it seems but the other day
That I was a little boy at home,
Out yonder by Rayleigh way.

Ah! If I'd minded mother's words

That was meant for my good alone,

E. COLLER.

I'd been a decent, well-to-do chap,
With boys and gals o' my own.

Here, drink, lad !-Well, it wasn't to be-
I shouldn't ha' done for homely wear;
I've a touch of gipsy blood i' my veins,
That pants for the sun and air.

Tramping it merrily, east or west,
Town or country, hill or dale,-
That was the life I lived and liked
When life was cheery and hale.

And yet there was many a moment, too,
When my heart was touch'd with ruth
At thoughts of my poor old mother at home
And my wasted, shameful youth.

Is the boy my own?-Well, yes—and no;
He is and he isn't mine.

Here, Will lad, go and play a bit

On the green, there, in front o' the sign. Poor lad! I mind his mother well

A lady, by birth and grace,

That was sought, and ruined, and cast aside
By a villain doubly base.

It's three year ago since I met her fust,
So shrinking, and pale, and sweet,
With her baby boy that she lov'd so fond
"Twould touch yer heart to see't.

But Lord! I could read her story well,-
The love, and the bitter fall,

A blighted name, and a passionate flight,
And a tramp the more,-that's all!

She'd a little box o' ribbons and sich ;]
And she seem'd so gentle and mild,
That the women all bought a trifle or so
For the sake o' the pretty child.

But the boy look'd drooping, as well he might
With their scanty food and pay,

And the young un would know me, and prattle and smile In his pretty baby way.

Yet she seemed to be shy of the lodging dens,

And afraid o' the likes of we,

And would creep o' nights to a shed to sleep,
Tho' we shouldn't have hurt her, yer see.

I'd lost sight of her then for a bit, when one day
I met with a pal-limping Joe-

And he told me as how she'd been locked up,
Which it staggered me like a blow.

She'd took some fruit for her poor sick kid,
In a sort of fit o' despair;

So they had her up an' giv' her a month
Of prison work and fare

I see her again, in a little while,

Lookin' whiter and wuss than afore;

But the weaker she grow'd, poor soul, she seem'd
To cling to her boy the more.

Now there came the "Peddlers' Hact" just then,
That has caused such a deal o' fuss ;-

A Hact for turnin' men into thieves,

And women into wuss!

"Once a thief-allers a thief-
Brand 'em an' stop their bread,
And starve 'em all into being good—”
That's how the Hact's to be read!

When I heard as how they'd stopp'd her rounds,
And writ "convicted" agin her name,

I felt a chokin' like i' the throat,

And my heart was all aflame.

Only to think--in a Christian land

Where people preach and kneel-

It should be a crime for a fallen man
To earn an honest meal!

Well, I'd come one bitter night, dead-beat,
To a lodging crib I knew,