EE the course throng'd with gazers, the sports

The confusion but hear:-"I bet you, sir"-"Done!" Ten thousand strange murmurs resound far and near; Lords, hawkers, and jockeys, assail the tired ear; While with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest, Pamper'd, prancing, and pleas'd, his head touching his breast, Scarce snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate

The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate.

Now Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush

Dogs, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush;
Through marsh, fen, and brier, led by their sly prey,
They by scent, and by view, cheat a long tedious way;

While-alike born for sports of the field and the course,
Always sure to come thorough, a stanch and fleet horse,
And when, fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath,
The high-mettled racer is in at the death.

Grown aged, used up, and turn'd out of the stud

Lame, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, but yet with some blood— While knowing postilions his pedigree trace,

Tell his dam won this sweepstakes, his sire gain'd that race, And what matches he won to the ostlers count o'er,

As they loiter their time at some hedge ale-house doorWhile the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad, The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road.

Till at last, having labour'd, drudg'd early and late,
Bow'd down by degrees, he bends on to his fate;

Blind, old, and feeble, he tugs round a mill,

Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass stands still;
And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the view
In the very same cart which he yesterday drew,
While a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds-
The high-mettled racer is sold for the hounds.