Beneath yon gateway, Tattersall’s fam’d yard, Where nags are bought and sold both strong and fleet, Each with the betting book, and pencil hard, The legs and sporting men are wont to meet. Oft does the betting to their cunning yield, Their craft has many a fav’rite horse thrown back Then knowingly at odds they back the _field_, And turn their certain hundreds in a crack. Let not morality decry their game, Their heavy bets and calculations clear For Justice self has patronised the same Although to Justice many have paid dear. Nor you, ye tradesmen, murmur or complain, If when ye ask for cash, ye’re told to wait, Nor dare to dun, nor importune again, Tho’ ’twere to save you from starvation’s fate. Shall the great Derby or the Oaks give place To ordinary calls at tradesmen’s wills? Shall bets of honor lost upon a race Be left unpaid for shopmen’s dirty bills? Perhaps amidst the motley group you’ll see Some youth just jump’d into a peer’s estate, Some halfpay Captain M――, or Colonel D―― Much worse than nothing or by _legging_ great. Some lucky pugilist whose prowess great All other heroes of his day withstood, Some thick-scull’d horsedealer, who owes to fate More than to head and brains he ever could. Full many a flat and fortune favour’d youth, The east and western parts of London hold Full many a peer can testify the truth, That many men possess less brains than gold. Their names, their years, by folly written down, A lengthen’d list of dupes would well supply, And many a _leg_ might in the list be shown, Who carries now his _head_ amazing high. For thee who knowing not the term of _leg_ Dost in these lines mysterious language find, And would thereof an explanation beg To quench the sturdy wonder of thy mind. Haply at Tattersall’s Subscription Room, They’ll tell thee that, by modern definition A Leg’s a Lord, a Captain, or a Groom, Or one whose betting keeps him in condition For thee, who paramount of Legs the head, Dost herein recognize thine own estate, If chance, in after days by fancy led, Some sporting novice shall enquire thy fate. Haply some aged Jockey may reply Oft have we seen him on Newmarket course, With steadfast gaze and scrutinizing eye Watching the trial of some fav’rite horse. One morn we miss’d him on the accustom’d spot Just by the ditch, (the meeting week was near,) The races came but we beheld him not, At length to church-yard move we saw his bier. EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon a lap of earth A Leg at Epsom and Newmarket known, He made a handsome fortune on the turf, That turf, alas, now claims him as its own. From _The Spirit of the Age Newspaper_. 1828. ―――― AN ELEGY ON THE DEPARTED SEASON.