A beautiful sent into us some time ago by Neil Andrew, which we share with you here:
The Beulah’s were the bookies,
The Suffolk’s were the clerks,
They bleated six to four the field,
Above the song of larks.
The Texel’s shuffled forward,
And offered sovereigns, eight,
And waddled down to watch the race,
And grazed during the wait.
The wily Welsh ewe’s rubbed their chins,
And thought the price was poor,
They backed the second favourite,
When the price was nine to four.
A Dorset Horn, she then appeared,
And backed a rank outsider,
But only because she knew a Mule,
Who said she knew the rider.
The Clun’s had heard a whisper,
About a certain nag,
Who liked the course and distance,
And thought the race was in the bag.
The Scottish Blackface disagreed,
And thought the ground too wet,
Had heard that only two day’s hence,
That horse had seen the vet.
Border Leicester’s took a price,
About a certain grey,
Then chatted to the Jacob’s,
About the quality of hay.
A Charollais tried to have a bet,
Upon a chestnut nag,
But the Beulah said “I’m sorry,
But the starter’s dropped the flag.”
All the flock now paid attention,
Barely breathing, feeling tense,
Cheviots bleated some expletives,
When two fell at the first fence.
The Southdown’s and the Dorset’s
Had thoughts of getting rich
But both tore up their tickets
When unseated at the ditch.
The Texel’s done their money,
Was plain to see to from two jumps out,
But the Exmoor’s got excited
And started then to shout.
For they were on the winner,
They had plotted in their pens,
But they had taken eight to one,
And it had drifted out to tens.
Favourite backers shook their heads,
Little solace to be found,
Consoled themselves by saying,
Needs further furlongs, better ground.
All returned back to their form books
What would the next race bring,
For lambs like nothing better,
But to gamble in the spring!