Our Stable's a bit out of form

(Says more than one usual backer),

The pace will be made pretty warm,

And the finish will be a rare cracker.

By Jove! we must put our best goods in the front,

Or possibly we may be out of the hunt.

Come, Sir, don't go talking like that!

Cantankerous critics will chatter.

Our 'osses can go a rare "bat,"

Theirs funk it, Sir! That's what's the matter!

Eh, Ritchie, my boy? Oh, the crack that you ride

Will go, when he once settles into his stride.

My opinion's of little account,

But I don't mind admitting, yer honour,

I am not dead nuts on my mount.

Some say he's as good as a goner.

Though the Witlers are on him, of course, to a man,

His own brother warn't placed the one time as he ran.

The Brother Bung stock, entre nous,

All show soft, when it comes to close racing.

This horse looks a bit of a "screw,"—

There, Goschen, no need for grimacing.

I mean no offence; he's well trained, and might win;

But—well, backers seem cautious in planking their tin.

Humph! Pencillers have been at work;

They'll muck the nag's chance, if they're able.

Fatty Caine—the fanatical shirk!—

Seems inclined to abandon the Stable.

But still Compensation's a horse to my mind.

He will finish with fewer before than behind.