Her dame was Rebecca, a mare of great fame,
The pride of the turf, and the crack of the day,
They carried the cups and the prizes away.
She beat them at Richmond in the year forty-two,
Also at Northallerton swiftly she flew,
As if she was going on the wings of the wind,
And leaving the jockies to whip up behind.
At Richmond in forty-three, all of them tried,
To beat Alice Hawthorn, but vainly they vied,
'Twas glorious to see how the favourite did run,