The All Right ‘Un
He came from ‘further out’,That land of heat and droughtAnd dust and gravel.He got a touch of sun,And rested at the runUntil his cure was done,And he could travel.
When spring had decked the plain,He flitted off againAs flit the swallows.And from that western land,When many months were spanned,A letter came to hand,Which read as follows:
‘Dear sir, I take my penIn hopes that all your menAnd you are hearty.You think that I’ve forgotYour kindness, Mr. Scott,Oh, no, dear sir, I’m notThat sort of party.
‘You sometimes bet, I know,Well, now you’ll have a showThe ‘books’ to frighten.Up here at WingadeeYoung Billy Fife and meWe’re training Strife, and heIs a all right ‘un.
‘Just now we’re running byes,But, sir, first time he triesI’ll send you word of.And running ‘on the crook’Their measures we have took,It is the deadest hookYou ever heard of.
‘So when we lets him go,Why, then, I’ll let you know,And you can have a showTo put a mite on.Now, sir, my leave I’ll take,Yours truly, William Blake.P.S.—Make no mistake,HE’S A ALL RIGHT ‘UN.’
. . . . .
By next week’s RIVERINEI saw my friend had beenA bit too cunning.I read: ‘The racehorse StrifeAnd jockey William FifeDisqualified for life—Suspicious running.’
But though they spoilt his game,I reckon all the sameI fairly ought to claimMy friend a white ‘un.For though he wasn’t straight,His deeds would indicateHis heart at any rateWas ‘a all right ‘un’.