On the fields of Col�raine there�ll be labour in vain
Before the Great Western is ended,
The nags will have toil�d, and the silks will be soil�d,
And the rails will require to be mended.
For the gullies are deep, and the uplands are steep,
And mud will of purls be the token,
And the tough stringy-bark, that invites us to lark,
With impunity may not be broken.
Though Ballarat�s fast, and they say he can last,
And that may be granted hereafter,
Yet the judge�s decision to the Border division
Will bring neither shouting nor laughter.
And Blueskin, I�ve heard that he goes like a bird,
And I�m told that to back him would pay me;
He�s a good bit of stuff, but not quite good enough,
�Non licuit credere famae.�
Alfred ought to be there, we all of us swear
By the blood of King Alfred, his sire;
He�s not the real jam, by the blood of his dam,
So I sha�n�t put him down as a flyer.
Now, Hynam, my boy, I wish you great joy,
I know that when fresh you can jump, sir;
But you�ll scarce be in clover, when you�re ridden all over,
And punished from shoulder to rump, sir.
Archer goes like a shot, they can put on their pot,
And boil it to cover expenses;
Their pot will boil over, the run of his dover
He�ll never earn over big fences.
There�s a horse in the race, with a blaze on his face,
And we know he can gallop a docker!
He�s proved himself stout, of his speed there�s no doubt,
And his jumping�s according to Cocker.
When Hynam�s outstripp�d, and when Alfred is whipp�d,
To keep him in sight of the leaders,
While Blueskin runs true, but his backers look blue,
For his rider�s at work with the bleeders;
When his carcase of beef brings �the bullock� to grief,
And the rush of the tartan is ended;
When Archer�s in trouble, who�s that pulling double,
And taking his leaps unextended?
He wins all the way, and the rest, sweet, they say,
Is the smell of the newly-turned plough, friend,
But you smell it too close when it stops eyes and nose,
And you can�t tell your horse from your cow, friend.