THEM OLD RAZOOS AT TOPSHAM TRACK
Won’t you poke your buzzin’ stop-watch,
Daddy Time, and click ’er back
To the days of spider high-wheels on the
dinky Topsham track?
When they raced there in October for per-
taters, corn, and oats—
Sometimes paid the purse in shotes—
Drivers wore their buff’ler coats,
And the weather was so juicy that the boys
would take a vote
As to which would drag the better, suh, a sulky
or a boat.
Still ’twas fun, when the sun
Got the moppin’ bus’ness done,
And the field went off a-skatin’, half the pelters
on the run.
There was’Liza, Old Keturah Ann, and Dough-
nut Boy and Pat,
Their pedigrees was barnyard, but we didn’t
care for that;
So hooray! So hooroo! Oh, ye ought to see
’em climb,
They was racers, suh, from ’way back—but no
matter ’bout the time!
There was goers in that pack—
Look at Toggle-jointed Jack
With an action like a windmill, but the critter
he could rack!
And I’d like to have him back,
For I tell you, bub, I stack
On the high-wheel, razoo-races of the good old
Topsham track.
Oh, you oughter seen the send-offs, and you
oughter seen the tricks!
For the stretch was chock-a-blocko when they
scored ’em down by six.
And the starter he would whang-o on a dented
strip of tin,
But the drivers never minded ’less he cussed the
gang like sin.
The hoss-whips that they carried reached away
beyond the manes,
And they larruped ’em with chains—
Tried to lift ’em by the reins.
’Twas muscle, suh, that won the race in them
old days—not brains!
And you’d think to see the sawin’ and the
jerkin’ and the h’ists,
The boys they was a-usin’ partent webbin’s
made of j’ists.
Their elbows flapped like flyin’ and they yow-
wowed through the dust,
And ’twarn’t through lack of hollerin’ that ev’ry
man warn’t fust.
’Twas “Hi-i yah, cut the corners!” and “Hi-i
yoop, take the pole!”
“Don’t ye keep me in this pocket—let me ont
there, darn yer soul!”
“Gimme room there! don’t ye pinch me or I’ll
bust yer blasted wheel!”
“Hi, you sucker, that’s a steal!”
“That’s a low-down trick, to squeal!”
“Oh, ye want some trouble, do ye? Wal, con-
sarn yer harslet, peel!”
It was tetchy, mister, tetchy, to go sassin’ on ’em
back,
When the crowd got interested at the good old
Topsham track.
There was Savage—Solly Savage—drivin’
Adeline Success—
He had speed to sell at auction, but they bribed
the cuss, I guess—
For he pulled her tight and good—
Pulled her settin’—then he stood.
Jest got up and braced his feet, suh, and he
pulled her all he could.
But the blamed old mare was fussy, wasn’t
posted on the deal,
H’isted up her skeeter-duster and let out one
mighty squeal.
She was leadin’ of ’em easy on the back stretch
at the turn,
And there wasn’t no mistakin’ that the race and
heat were her’n.
Ginger, ginger! She could go!
When she didn’t stub her toe,
Warn’t a horse in all the county stood a show
suh, stood a show!
Sol was madder’n snakes in hayin’—had a string
of catnip fits,
Just unfastened both the traces and she hauled
him by the bits.
And that rank old Adeline
She come snortin’ ’crost the line
Least a dozen lengths a leader, and they soaked
old Sol a fine.
Then the feller that had bribed him played tat-
too on Solly’s face,
And took back the dollar-fifty that he’d give him
for the race;
But the boys they licked the feller. Solly got
his money back,
For we stood for honest dealing at the good old
Topsham track.
Now come join me, all old timers,—hip, hooray
and tiger, too!
For the high-wheel days at Topsham and the
good old-time razoo—
For the days of spider sulkies and the days of
solid fun,
When we had a dozen knock-downs ’fore the
race could be begun;
When ’twas a Huddup, Uncle Eli,” and “H”
along there, John, or bust;”
And the man that finished fust,
Though he argued and he cussed,
Might not always get decisions—’twas accordin’
to the dust;
And ’twas therefore kind of needful, suh, right
after ev’ry heat,
To have another fight or so to settle who had
beat;
But they never left a grudge,
Even when they licked the judge.
And we wasn’t all teetotal, still we went it light
on “budge,”
For we never took no stronger than some good
New England rum—
Jest a mild and pleasant bev’rage—why, the
deacons they took some!
Then there wasn’t pedigrees,
And no chin-kerbumping knees,1
And an av’rage field would manage jest to keep
ahead the breeze.
But come join me, ye old-timers, in this pledge
and one hurrah,
For the spanking, wide-hoofed pelters of the old
days of “Hi yah-h-h,”
For a feller kinder feels
That he’d go without his meals
Jest to hear some more kiwhoopin’ from the old-
time trottin’ spiels.
When the wind was in the drivers—nowadays it’s
in the wheels.
When the tang was in the weather on those
autumn afternoons,
And the band got kind of dreamy in those good
old-fashioned tunes.
Oh, ’twas awful good to set there on the sunny
side the stand,
And to have your girl a-smilin’ and a-snugglin’,
hand in hand;
And to hear her, when you mentioned getting
started pretty soon,
Whisper, blushin’, “What’s the hurry? There
will be a lovely moon!”
Ah, there’s moisture on my eyelids and my voice
is gettin’ hoarse.
But ’tis prob’ly jest the mem’ry of the dust of
that old course.
Oh, Daddy Time, if somehow you could only
click your watch
And let a feller start again a race he’s made a
botch,
I wouldn’t ask no better place to start my life
anew.
Than on that stand that afternoon beside that
girl I knew,
With my arm behind her back,
And a hidden, bashful smack
To sweeten all the popcorn balls we munched
at Topsham track.
