It's nothing to me, a man might say,
That a rich young fool should be cast away,
Though what he does with his own, in fine,
Is certainly no concern of mine.
I'm paid to see that his horse is fit,
I can't engage for an owner's wit.
For the heart of a man may love his brother,
But who can be wise to save another?
Souls are our own to save from burning,
We must all learn how, and pay for learning.
And now, by the clock, that bell that went
Was the Saddling Bell for the first event.
Since the time comes close, it will save some swearing
If we get beforehand, and start preparing."
The roads were filled with a drifting crowd,
Many mouth-organs droned aloud,
A couple of lads in scarlet hats,
Yellow trousers and purple spats,
Dragged their banjos, wearily eyeing
Passing brakes full of sportsmen Hi-ing.
Then with a long horn blowing a glory
Came the four-in-hand of the young Lord Tory,
The young Lord's eyes on his leader's ears
And the blood-like team going by to cheers.
Then in a brake came cheerers and hooters
Peppering folk from tin peashooters;
The Green Man's Friendly in bright mauve caps
Followed fast in the Green Man's traps,
The crowd made way for the traps to pass
Then a drum beat up with a blare of brass,
Medical students smart as paint
Sang gay songs of a sad complaint.
A wolf-eyed man who carried a kipe
Whistled as shrill as a man could pipe,
Then paused and grinned with his gaps of teeth
Crying "Here's your colours for Compton Heath,
All the colours of all the starters,
For gentlemen's ties and ladies' garters;
Here you have them, penny a pin,
Buy your colours and see them win.
Here you have them, the favourites' own,
Sir Lopez' colours, the blue-white-roan,
For all the races and what'll win 'em
Real jockey's silk with a pin to pin 'em."
Out of his kipe he sold to many
Bright silk buttons and charged a penny.
A bookie walked with his clerk beside him,
His stool on his shoulders seemed to ride him,
His white top-hat bore a sign which ran
"Your old pal Bunkie the working man."
His clothes were a check of three-inch squares,
"Bright brown and fawn with the pearls in pairs,"
Double pearl buttons ran down the side,
The knees were tight and the ankles wide,
A bright, thick chain made of discs of tin
Secured a board from his waist to chin.
The men in the brakes that passed at trot
Read "First past Post" and "Run or Not."
The bookie's face was an angry red,
His eyes seemed rolling inside his head.
His clerk was a lean man, secret, spare,
With thin lips knowing and damp black hair.
A big black bag much weathered with rain
Hung round his neck by a leathered chain.
Seven linked dancers singing a song
Bowed and kicked as they danced along,
The middleman thrust and pulled and squeezed
A concertina to tunes that pleased.
After them, honking, with Hey, Hey, Hey,
Came drivers thrusting to clear the way,
Drivers vexed by the concertina,
Saying "Go bury that d——d hyena."
Drivers dusty with wind-red faces
Leaning out of their driving-places.
The dancers mocked them and called them names:
"Look at our butler," "Drive on, James."
The cars drove past and the dust rose after,
Little boys chased them yelling with laughter,
Clambering on them when they slowed
For a dirty ride down a perch of road.
A dark green car with a smart drab lining
Passed with a stately pair reclining;
Peering walkers standing aside
Saw Soyland's owner pass with his bride,
Young Sir Eustace, biting his lip,
Pressing his chin with his finger-tip,
Nerves on edge, as he could not choose,
From thought of the bets he stood to lose.
His lady, a beauty whom thought made pale,
Prayed from fear that the horse might fail.
A bright brass rod on the motor's bonnet
Carried her husband's colours on it,
Scarlet spots on a field of cream:
She stared ahead in a kind of dream.