With eight stone eleven up.
And the first time I went to a racecourse.
Oh, how I kicked with pride!
When they backed me to beat the favourite,
And engaged a crack jockey to ride:
My coat it was shining like satin,
And I knew not the meaning of shame,
I was down on the card as “Sir Lancelot”:
And now I have got no name.
There were nineteen others running,