With flushing cheek, and sparkling eye, Whene’er a favourite’s horse they spy, And talked of odds to give or take, Of Handicap, Match, or Sweepstake, And saw their dainty fingers hold Purses in which shone coins of gold, Ready to pay in case of loss, Though e’en the notion made them cross; Or heard them eager claim the cash Won from the losers, young and rash; She marked the scene with sad surprise, And wished her sex more proud—more wise. Now rise the shouts of races bawled, And discord, falsely music called— Vile organs, viler clarionets, With cries of blacklegs offering bets; Shrill flutes, and shriller pipes of Pan, And songs deserving censor’s ban; “The horses, and their owners’ names,” At every side some knave proclaims; And cries of “Dorling’s genuine card,” From lungs stentorian ceaseless heard; While thimbleriggers boors entice, And sharpers others tempt with dice; And execrations, loud and deep, Are heard, as disappears the heap Of coins of silver and of brass, Won from the coffers of each ass; And countless beggars ply their trade, Whom practice long hath perfect made; And gipsy, chattering like a witch, Foretells weak maidens husbands rich, Prates of dark women and fair men, Begs you’ll but cross her hands, and then She’ll straight reveal your future fate, Whether a coffin or a mate: These mingled sounds produce such din, That Mary feels, a realm to win, Again she’d not a race-course see, And longed—how longed—at home to be! And now the racers are led out, And quick disperse the rabble rout; The generous steeds impatient stand, While held in by their trainers’ hand: Their coats how sleek, their limbs how fine! England, what coursers equal thine? The Jockeys, too, how trim, how neat! How light each hand, how firm each seat! The signal’s given, they start a pace That promises a well-fought race: They quicker move—now quicker still, Round Tottenham Corner; see what skill Each Jockey shews to save his horse! Now rapidly along the course They dart, like arrows from the bow, And keep so near, that none can know Which is the fleetest. Side by side, The pink and yellow rapid glide; They’re neck to neck: how far behind The rest are left!—swift as the wind They fly. Now yellow dashes past The pink—the leader’s now the last! The yellow keeps a-head: he’ll win— He nears the goal—“He’s in! he’s in!” A deaf’ning shout now rends the air; } The winners laugh, the losers swear, } Whose feeling wives their salts prepare. } How pallid look their cheeks and brows! How sullen seems each beaten spouse, Reflecting he must soon “book up,” And leave the victor, gold, and cup!