Classic Poem

Lean racers had your blust'ring chat,
While I relate a race on fat :
For wagers now are turn'd so common,
'Tween London city and Loch-Lomond,
That racing never will decline,
While we have either pigs or swine.

The racers were two Epicures ,
The umpires were two Embro' whores;
Now the whole beauty of the wager,
The fattest bore me like a cadger;
He was allow'd a mile advance,
Which gave him still an equal chance:
Swift had much need, — his side held ham
More than Ned Bright, or yet Big Sam;
While like an Atlas mov'd Escape ,
For he surpass'd Jack Falstaff's shape.

From Barber's burn Swift sprung alert,
From Water-gate Escape did start;
The road was dry, they rais'd a dust,
Just like a winter muirland mist;
And wi' such straining, puffing, blowing,
The sweat ran o'er their hurdies flowing:
They made the very earth to shake,
Resembling Etna's great earthquake;
For faith I thought t'would be my fate
To be sunk under Arthur's seat.

Some fisher-wives, who saw the race,
One in particular spy'd my face,
Cry'd, " Lord preserve 's! he looks right sad,
" I wish he binna turn'd mad. "
" Whisht (quoth anither) wi' your bawlin',
" Guid troth I ken right weel the callan',
" For he's nae gaen to Inverask,
" He's only on some racing task,
" As that great muckle fat man's guider;
" In Scotland there's no' sic a rider:
" He's won a rowth o' gear an' lan's,
" At strange Newmarket, an' Leith sands. "
But e'er we reach'd the Fisher-row,
Escape he got an unco fa',
And broke his head, and tore his paw;
By this my hiefer won the race,
At a slow, cant'ring, affes' pace.

To see old men in youthful follies,
Affords more sport than modern bullies;
Or all the sun we get by tickets
To see a play, or tricks by Rickets;
Or yet the great big Irish asses,
Or Mr Cartwright's singing glasses:
Exert your powers, Kay and Silvester,
You'll make your fortunes ten times faster.