No! Here comes the Captain’s colt,
He’s us at five seven! He’ll beat us—Oh, heaven!
But no—he has shot his bolt.
I can see the face of a girl, sir,
A standing there in the ring,
She’s a maiden to meet—(out of Winchester Street),
And she’s “backed us like everyding.”
I must win this race For Her, sir,
For hereon there rests a name.
Her virgin caresses—her “Empire” dresses,