The Races next,—O! Sport refined For women who pretend to mind— Come in their turn; but humdrum folks Can miss “the Derby,” or “the Oaks.” What, though the road to Epsom’s lined With crowds, and “cabined, cribbed, confined,” Each carriage scarce can move along Amid the dense and motley throng; And clouds of suffocating dust Are borne by every fitful gust; And slang, and curses—gentle notes!— Are heard from silken-kerchiefed throats; And rude remarks enough to raise The blush of shame—if ever praise Could mortify, it sure were here— When men, the vilest, passing near, Proclaim each high-born maid “a gal,” With half the points of Jane or Sal. And then tobacco’s fume exhales, To poison e’en the vernal gales. The coronetted coach, with steeds Such as our England only breeds, Ploughs down the crowded road its way, ’Mid taxcart, fly-van, buggy, dray; The four-in-hand, from whose high seat } Each Noble drives, with look elate, } As if he held the reins of State; } And flocks of men, and women too, With nought but staring work to do, And idle urchins, line the road And by loud shouts the horses goad: Such is the scene the route displays To Epsom, on the appointed days, When Fashion sends her votaries out To mingle with the rabble rout. The weather, too, propitious shines, And all our climate’s change combines; And showers, and wind, and dust, and sun, Annoy us ’till the day be done; Oh! who the Races ever knew To pass, and was not well soaked through? Arrived, the Stand each Lady seeks, With crimson nose and purple cheeks, Ringlets that all their curl have lost, And robes and canezous sadly tossed, And bonnets that from Paris came, So spoilt, who’d know them for the same? As droop poor Nattier’s faded flowers, Pale victims to this clime of ours; Or hangs the twisted, broken feather, Attesting our uncertain weather. The men behold the altered faces Of belles who stood in their good graces; And some, intending to propose, Draw off, alarmed by ruby nose. But Woman, ever prone to please, Affects, although she feels not ease; For, half-suspecting she’s a fright, She tries to set her toilette right; And lisps, “I hope _your_ horse will win,” To every beau that enters in: While man, the gentler sex forgetting, Remembers nothing but his betting, Consults his book, takes three to two, Then nods and hollas “Done with you!” ’Tis true he comes between the heats, And wanders round the women’s seats, ’Till he has found the favoured dame For whom he feels, or feigns a flame; And, by attentions somewhat free, Leads cool spectators to agree That “he’s a devilish lucky fellow,” Who’ll tell them all when next he’s mellow. To mingle with this herd of men, Who thought of nought but horses then, Our Mary felt was not her place, And took no pleasure in the race. But when she marked the women bet, And more and more excited get,