A Disqualified Jockey’s Story
You see, the thing was this way—there was me,That rode Panoppoly, the Splendor mare,And Ikey Chambers on the Iron Dook,And Smith, the half-caste rider, on Regret,And that long bloke from Wagga—him what rodeVeronikew, the Snowy River horse.Well, none of them had chances—not a chanceAmong the lot, unless the rest fell deadOr wasn’t trying—for a blind man’s dogCould see Enchantress was a certain cop,And all the books was layin’ six to four.
They brought her out to show our lot the road,Or so they said; but, then, Gord’s truth! you know,You can’t believe ’em, though they took an oathOn forty Bibles that they’d tell the truth.But anyhow, an amateur was upOn this Enchantress, and so Ike and me,We thought that we might frighten him a bitBy asking if he minded riding rough—‘Oh, not at all,’ says he, ‘oh, not at all!I learnt at Robbo Park, and if it comesTo bumping I’m your Moses! Strike me blue!’Says he, ‘I’ll bump you over either rail,The inside rail or outside—which you chooseIs good enough for me’—which settled Ike;For he was shaky since he near got killedFrom being sent a buster on the rail,When some chap bumped his horse and fetched him downAt Stony Bridge, so Ikey thought it bestTo leave this bloke alone, and I agreed.
So all the books was layin’ six to fourAgainst the favourite, and the amateurWas walking this Enchantress up and down,And me and Smithy backed him; for we thoughtWe might as well get something for ourselves,Because we knew our horses couldn’t win.But Ikey wouldn’t back him for a bob;Because he said he reckoned he was stiff,And all the books was layin’ six to four.
Well, anyhow, before the start, the newsGot round that this here amateur was stiff,And our good stuff was blued, and all the booksWas in it, and the prices lengthened out,And every book was bustin’ of his throat,And layin’ five to one the favourite.So there was we that couldn’t win ourselves,And this here amateur that wouldn’t try,And all the books was layin’ five to one.
So Smithy says to me, ‘You take a holdOf that there moke of yours, and round the turnCome up behind Enchantress with the whipAnd let her have it; that long bloke and meWill wait ahead, and when she comes to usWe’ll pass her on and belt her down the straight,And Ikey’ll flog her home, because his bossIs judge and steward and the Lord knows what,And so he won’t be touched—and, as for us,We’ll swear we only hit her by mistake!’And all the books was layin’ five to one.
Well, off we went, and comin’ to the turnI saw the amateur was holding backAnd poking into every hole he couldTo get her blocked, and so I pulled behindAnd drew the whip and dropped it on the mare—I let her have it twice, and then she shotAhead of me, and Smithy opened outAnd let her up beside him on the rails,And kept her there a-beltin’ her like smokeUntil she struggled past him pullin’ hardAnd came to Ike; but Ikey drew his whipAnd hit her on the nose and sent her backAnd won the race himself—for, after all,It seems he had a fiver on the DookAnd never told us—so our stuff was lost.And then they had us up for ridin’ foul,And warned us off the tracks for twelve months each,To get our livin’ any way we could;But Ikey wasn’t touched, because his bossWas judge and steward and the Lord knows what.
But Mister—if you’ll lend us half-a-crown,I know three certain winners at the Park—Three certain cops as no one knows but me;And—thank you, Mister, come an’ have a beer(I always like a beer about this time) …Well, so long, Mister, till we meet again.