‘Spider is winning!’ ‘Jo Chauncy is winning!’ ‘He’s winning! He’s winning! Bravo!’ The bookies are raving, the ladies are waving, The Stand is all shouting for Jo. The horse is clean done, but the race may be won By the Newmarket lad on his back; For the fire of the rider may bring an outsider Ahead of a thoroughbred crack. ‘Spider is winning!’ ‘Jo Chauncy is winning!’ It swells like the roar of the sea; But Jo hears the drumming of somebody coming, And sees a lean head by his knee. ‘Nuneaton! Nuneaton! The Spider is beaten!’ It is but a spurt at the most; For lose it or win it, they have but a minute Before they are up with the post. Nuneaton is straining, Nuneaton is gaining, Neither will falter nor flinch; Whips they are plying and jackets are flying, They’re fairly abreast to an inch. ‘Crack ’em up! Let ’em go! Well ridden! Bravo!’ Gamer ones never were bred; Jo Chauncy has done it! He’s spurted! He’s won it!’ The favourite’s beat by a head! Don’t tell me of luck, for its judgment and pluck And a courage that never will shirk; To give your mind to it and know how to do it And put all your heart in your work. So here’s to the Spider, the winning outsider, With little Jo Chauncy up; May they stay life’s course, both jockey and horse, As they stayed in the Farnshire Cup. But it’s possible that you are wondering what May have happened to Farmer Brown, And the old gray crock of Isonomy stock Who was backed by the sharps from town. She blew and she sneezed, she coughed and she wheezed, She ran till her knees gave way. But never a grumble at trip or at stumble Was heard from her jock that day. For somebody laid _against_ the gray, And somebody made a pile; And Brown says he can make farming pay, And he smiles a simple smile. ‘Them sharps from town were riled,’ says Brown; ‘But I can’t see why—can you? For I said quite fair as I knew that mare, And I proved my words was true.’ THE GROOM’S STORY Ten mile in twenty minutes! ’E done it, sir. That’s true. The big bay ’orse in the further stall—the one wot’s next to you. I’ve seen some better ’orses; I’ve seldom seen a wuss, But ’e ’olds the bloomin’ record, an’ that’s good enough for us. We knew as it wa’s in ’im. ’E’s thoroughbred, three part, We bought ’im for to race ’im, but we found ’e ’ad no ’eart; For ’e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin’ dignified, It seemed a kind o’ liberty to drive ’im or to ride; For ’e never seemed a-thinkin’ of what ’e ’ad to do, But ’is thoughts was set on ’igher things, admirin’ of the view. ’E looked a puffeck pictur, and a pictur ’e would stay, ’E wouldn’t even switch ’is tail to drive the flies away.