First Prize.
One turn in the saddle to look at the smoke,
Then into a canter the stout pony broke.
“All right!” cried the laager’s last picket; and I,
“Right!” cheerily answered, as, cantering by,
I took in the very last hole in my belt,
And, alone with my tidings, rode into the veldt.
Not a word from a comrade to cheer me, no beat
From an answering hoof to make him more fleet,
For the nag; but I gave, with the flat of my hand,