The Fields Of Coleraine
By Adam Lindsay Gordon
On the fields of Colraine therell be labour in vain
Before the Great Western is ended,
The nags will have toild, and the silks will be soild,
And the rails will require to be mended.
For the gullies are deep, and the uplands are steep,
And mud will of purls be the token,
And the tough stringy-bark, that invites us to lark,
With impunity may not be broken.
Though Ballarats fast, and they say he can last,
And that may be granted hereafter,
Yet the judges decision to the Border division
Will bring neither shouting nor laughter.
And Blueskin, Ive heard that he goes like a bird,
And Im told that to back him would pay me;
Hes a good bit of stuff, but not quite good enough,
Non licuit credere famae.
Alfred ought to be there, we all of us swear
By the blood of King Alfred, his sire;
Hes not the real jam, by the blood of his dam,
So I shant put him down as a flyer.
Now, Hynam, my boy, I wish you great joy,
I know that when fresh you can jump, sir;
But youll scarce be in clover, when youre ridden all over,
And punished from shoulder to rump, sir.
Archer goes like a shot, they can put on their pot,
And boil it to cover expenses;
Their pot will boil over, the run of his dover
Hell never earn over big fences.
Theres a horse in the race, with a blaze on his face,
And we know he can gallop a docker!
Hes proved himself stout, of his speed theres no doubt,
And his jumpings according to Cocker.
When Hynams outstrippd, and when Alfred is whippd,
To keep him in sight of the leaders,
While Blueskin runs true, but his backers look blue,
For his riders at work with the bleeders;
When his carcase of beef brings the bullock to grief,
And the rush of the tartan is ended;
When Archers in trouble, whos that pulling double,
And taking his leaps unextended?
He wins all the way, and the rest, sweet, they say,
Is the smell of the newly-turned plough, friend,
But you smell it too close when it stops eyes and nose,
And you cant tell your horse from your cow, friend.