The great grand stand, made grey by the weather, Flaunted colours that tugged their tether; Tier upon tier the wooden seats Were packed as full as the London streets When the King and Queen go by in state. Click click clack went the turnstile gate; The orange-sellers cried "Fat and fine Seville oranges, sweet, like wine: Twopence apiece, all juice, all juice." The pea and the thimble caught their goose. Two white-faced lurchers, not over-clean, Urged the passers to "spot the Queen." They flicked three cards that the world might choose, They cried "All prizes. You cannot lose. Come, pick the lady. Only a shilling." One of their friends cried out, "I'm willing." He "picked the lady" and took his pay, And he cried, "It's giving money away." Men came yelling "Cards of the races"; Men hawked matches and studs and laces; Gipsy-women in green shawls dizened Read girls' fortunes with eyes that glistened; Negro minstrels on banjos strumming Sang at the stiles to people coming. Like glistening beetles clustered close, The myriad motors parked in rows, The bonnets flashed, and the brass did clink, As the drivers poured their motors drink. The March wind blew the smell of the crowd, All men there seemed crying aloud, But over the noise a louder roar Broke, as the wave that bursts on shore, Drowns the roar of the wave that comes, So this roar rose on the lesser hums, "I back the field. I back the field." Man who lives under sentence sealed, Tragical man, who has but breath For few brief years as he goes to death, Tragical man by strange winds blown To live in crowds ere he die alone, Came in his jovial thousands massing, To see Life moving and Beauty passing. They sucked their fruit in the wooden tiers And flung the skins at the passers' ears; Drumming their heels on the planks below, They sang of Dolly of Idaho. Past, like a flash, the first race went. The time drew by to the great event. At a quarter to three the big bell pealed; The horses trooped to the Saddling Field. Covered in clothing, horse and mare Pricked their ears at the people there; Some showed devil, and some, composure, As they trod their way to the great enclosure. When the clock struck three and the men weighed out, Charles Cothill shook, though his heart was stout. The thought of his bets, so gaily laid, Seemed a stone the more when he sat and weighed. As he swung in the scales and nursed his saddle, It seemed to him that his brains would addle; For now that the plunger reached the brink, The risk was more than he liked to think. In ten more minutes his future life, His hopes of home with his chosen wife, Would all depend on a doubtful horse In a crowded field over Compton Course.