A VERY "DARK HORSE."
["The Country knows ... what it is we desire to do. What the Right Hon. Gentleman (Mr. GLADSTONE) desires to do no human being knows. If we have done our part, as we have done, to clear the issues, all we can ask him is to do his part, to lay before the electorate of this country in the same plain, unmistakable outline, the policy which he desires to see adopted."—Mr. Balfour on Second Reading of Irish Local Government Bill.]
SCENE—The Paddock, before the Great Race. Rising Young Jockey, ARTHUR BALFOUR, mounted on the Crack Irish Horse. Enter Grand Old Jockey, at the moment minus a mount.
Grand Old Jockey (aside). Humph! Don't look so bad, now, despite the dead set
That against him we've made since his very first running,
Do they mean him to win after all? Artful set,
That Stable! It strikes me they've been playing cunning.
One wouldn't have backed him, first off, for a bob.
His owner concerning him scarcely seemed caring.
Eugh! No one supposed he was fair "on the job";
A mere trial-horse, simply "out for an airing."
When he first stripped in public he looked such a screw,
He was hailed with a general chorus of laughter;
Young BAL seemed abashed at the general yahboo!
And pooh-poohed his new mount! What the doose is he after?
I'm bound to admit the Horse looks pretty fit,
And the boy sits him well, and as though he meant trying.
I say, this won't do! I must bounce him a bit.
Most awkward, you know, if his "slug" takes to flying!
Rising Young Jockey (aside). Hillo! There's Old WILLIAM! He's out on the scoot.
The artful Old Hand! Hope he'll like what he looks on!
He slated this nag as a peacocky brute,
Whose utter collapse they've been building their books on.
How now, my spry veteran? Only a boy
On a three-legged crock? Well, I own you are older,
And watching your riding's a thing to enjoy;
There isn't a Jock who is defter and bolder;
Your power, authority, eloquence—yes,
For your gift of the gab is a caution—are splendid;
But—the youngster may teach you a lesson, I guess,
As to judgment of pace ere the contest is ended.
Grand Old Jockey (aloud). Well, ARTHUR my lad, in the saddle again!
Is that your crack mount?
Rising Young Jockey. The identical one, WILL.
Grand Old Jockey. Dear, dear, what a pity! It quite gives me pain
To see you so wasted.
Rising Young Jockey. That's only your fun, WILL.
Grand Old Jockey. Nay, nay, not at all! Don't think much of his points.
He's not bred like a true-blood, nor built like a winner.
Not well put together, so coarse in his joints,
In fact—only fit for a hunting-pack's dinner!
Rising Young Jockey (laughing). Oh! "Cat's-meat!" is your cry, is it, WILLIAM? Well, well!
We shall see about that when the winning-post's handy.
Grand Old Jockey. You won't, my brave boy; that a novice could tell.
You'll be left in the ruck at the end, my young dandy,
Rising Young Jockey. Perhaps! Still the pencillers haven't,—as yet—
Quite knocked the nag out with their furious fever
Of hot opposition. Some cool ones still bet
On his chance of a win.
Grand Old Jockey (contemptuously). Ah, you're wonderful clever.
But we have got one in our Stable, my lad,
Who can—just lick his head off!
Rising Young Jockey (drily). Now have you indeed, WILL?
I fancy I've heard that before. Very glad
That your lot are in luck; and I hope you'll succeed, WILL,
But bless me! yours seems such a very Dark Horse!
Oh! there, don't fire up so! Your word I won't doubt, WILL.
You say so, and one must believe you, of course;
But—isn't it time that you brought the nag out, WILL?
