Bear in mind still, that I am a "spirit in the clouds," and, therefore,
there can be nothing of "_michin malachi_" in my melody.
I love a race-course, that I do;
But then, good folks, it is as true,
Only don't blab, I tell it you,
I can't love all its people;
For though I'm somewhat down and fly,
Is slang gone out, sweet Mister Spy?
Of trade with them I am as shy
As jumping from a steeple.
Yet what with fashion's feather'd band,
And pawing steeds, and crowded stand;
Its sights are really very grand,
Which to deny were sin.
But then, though fast the horses run,
Few gain by "clone," and "done," and "done,"
For what a damper to the fun!
Those "only laugh who win."
Oh! what a mixture must we greet
In rooms, at inns, on turf, in street;
Be "hand and glove" with all we meet,
Old files, and new-bronzed faces!
With marquis, lord, and duke, and squire,
We now keep up the betting fire;
And then the guard of the "Highflyer"
We book at Northern races.{3}
3 A song would be no song at all without notes; I must
there-fore try a few.
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