He yorked him twice on a crumbling pitch and wiped his eye with a
brace,
But his guy-rope split with the strain of it and he dropped back
out of the race;
And I drew a bead on the Meteor's lead, and challenging none too
soon,
Bent over and patted her garboard strake, and called upon Wooden
Spoon.
She was all of a shiver forward, the spoondrift thick on her flanks,
But I'd brought her an easy gambit, and nursed her over the banks;
She answered her helm—the darling! and woke up now with a rush,
While the Meteor's jock, he sat like a rock—he knew we rode for
his brush!
There was no one else left in it. The Saint was using his whip,
And Safety Match, with a lofting catch, was pocketed deep at slip;
And young Ben Bolt with his niblick took miss at Leander's lunge,
But topped the net with the ricochet, and Steinitz threw up the
sponge.
But none of the lot could stop the rot—nay, don't ask me to stop!
The villa had called for lemons, Oom Paul had taken his drop,
And both were kicking the referee. Poor fellow! he done his best;
But, being in doubt, he'd ruled them out—which he always did when
pressed.
So, inch by inch, I tightened the winch, and chucked the sandbags
out—
I heard the nursery cannons pop, I heard the bookies shout:
"The Meteor wins!" "No, Wooden Spoon!" "Check!" "Vantage!"
"Leg Before!"
"Last Lap!" "Pass Nap!" At his saddle-flap I put up the helm and
wore.
You may overlap at the saddle-flap, and yet be loo'd on the tape:
And it all depends upon changing ends, how a seven-year-old will
shape;
It was tack and tack to the Lepe and back—a fair ding-dong to the
Ridge,
And he led by his forward canvas yet as we shot 'neath Hammersmith
Bridge.
He led by his forward canvas—he led from his strongest suit—
But along we went on a roaring scent, and at Fawley I gained a foot.
He fisted off with his jigger, and gave me his wash—too late!
Deuce—Vantage—Check! By neck and neck we rounded into the
straight.
I could hear the "Conquering 'Ero" a-crashing on Godfrey's band,
And my hopes fell sudden to zero, just there, with the race in
hand—
In sight of the Turf's Blue Ribbon, in sight of the umpire's tape,
As I felt the tack of her spinnaker c-rack! as I heard the steam
escape!
Had I lost at that awful juncture my presence of mind? … but no!
I leaned and felt for the puncture, and plugged it there with my
toe….
Hand over hand by the Members' Stand I lifted and eased her up,
Shot—clean and fair—to the crossbar there, and landed the
Jubilee Cup!
"The odd by a head, and leg before," so the Judge he gave the word:
And the umpire shouted "Over!" but I neither spoke nor stirred.
They crowded round: for there on the ground I lay in a dead-cold
swoon,
Pitched neck and crop on the turf atop of my beautiful Wooden Spoon.