These gentlemen-riders deem all are outsiders Save them: as if gent ever made A 1 jock! Ah! ADAM L. GORDON,[1] poor chap, had a word on Such matters. I'll warrant _he_ sat like a rock, And went like a blizzard. Yes, beauty, it _is_ hard To eat off your head in the stable like this. Too long you have idled; but wait till you're bridled! _The_ hunt of the season I swear you won't miss, It has been hard weather, although, beauty, whether 'Tis that altogether your chance that postponed, Or whether Boss SOLLY committed a folly-- No matter! A comelier crack he ne'er owned, Although 'tis I say it who shouldn't. The way it Has snowed and has frozen may be his excuse; But when you're once started, deer-limbed, lion-hearted, I warrant, my beauty, you'll go like the deuce. "A lean head and fiery, strong quarters, and wiry, A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb," That's GORDON's description of _Iseult_. (All whip shun When riding such rattlers, and trust to the curb.) That mare was your sort, lad. I guess there'll be sport, lad, When _you_ make strong running, and near the last jump. And you, when extended, look "bloodlike and splendid." Ah! poor LINDSAY GORDON was sportsman and trump. I see your sleek muzzle in front! It will puzzle Your critics, my boy, to pick holes in you then: There's howling "HISTORICUS,"--he's but a sorry cuss! WEG, too, that grandest of all grand old men; He's ridden some races; of chances and paces, Of crocks _versus_ cracks he did ought to be judge. He sees you are speedy; when MORLEY sneers "Weedy," Or LAB doubts your staying, WEG knows it's all fudge! We're biding our time, lad. Your fettle is prime, lad; Though we're frost-bound now, open weather must come, At least after Easter; and, beauty, _when_ we stir. And forge to the front, lad, we'll just make things hum. In spite of much ruction concerning Obstruction, I wish--_in a whisper_--we'd started before, And, forcing the running, discarding all cunning, Romped in--_as we will_--'midst a general roar! [Footnote 1: ADAM LINDSAY GORDON, the ardent, horse-loving Australian poet.] * * * * * MORE IBSENITY. _Ghosts_ at the Royalty. "Alas, poor Ghosts!" A shady piece. "No money taken at the doors" on this occasion, which is making a virtue of necessity. This being the case, _Ghosts_ was, and if played again will, be witnessed by an audience mainly composed of "Deadheads." Lively this. The Critics have spoken out strongly, and those interested in this Ibsenity should read the criticisms presumably by Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT in _The Telegraph_ and Mr. MOY THOMAS in _The Daily News_. Stingers; but as outspoken as they are true, and just in all their dealings with this Ibsenian craze. * * * * *