Credat Judaeus Apella

Dear Bell, I enclose what you ask in a letter,     A short rhyme at random, no more and no less,     And you may insert it, for want of a better,     Or leave it, it doesnt much matter, I guess;     And as for a tip, why, there isnt much in it,     I may hit the right nail, but first, I declare,     I havent a notion whats going to win it     (The Champion, I mean), and whats more, I dont care.     Imprimis, theres Cowra, few nags can go quicker     Than she can, and Smith takes his oath she can fly;     While Brown, Jones, and Robinson swear shes a sticker,     But credat Judaeus Apella, say I.     Theres old Volunteer, Id be sorry to sneer     At his chance; hell be there, if he goes at the rate     He went at last year, when a customer queer,     Johnny Higgerson, fancied him lockd in the straight;     Ive heard that the old horse has never been fitter,     Ive heard all performances past hell outvie;     He may gallop a docker, and finish a splitter,     But credat Judaeus Apella, say I.     I know what they say, sir, The Hook he can stay, sir,     And stick to his work like a sleuth-hound or beagle;     He stays with a hook, and he sticks in the clay, sir;     Id rather, for choice, pop my money on Seagull;     Im told that the Sydney division will rue, sir,     Their rashness in front of the stand when they spy,     With a clear lead, the white jacket spotted with blue, sir,     But credat Judaeus Apella, say I.     Theres The Barb, you may talk of your flyers and stayers,     All bosh, when he strips you can see his eye range     Round his rivals, with much the same look as Tom Sayers     Once wore when he faced the big novice, Bill Bainge.     Like Stow, at our hustings, confronting the hisses     Of roughs, with his queer Mephistopheles smile;     Like Baker, or Bakers more wonderful Mrs.,     The terror of blacks at the source of the Nile;     Like Triton mid minnows; like hawk among chickens;     Like, anything better than everything else:     He stands at the post. Now theyre off! the plot thickens!     Quoth Stanley to Davis, How is your pulse?     He skims oer the smooth turf, he scuds through the mire,     He waits with them, passes them, bids them good-bye!     Two miles and three-quarters, cries Filgate, Hell tire.     Oh! credat Judaeus Apella, say I.     Lest my tale should come true, let me give you fair warning,     You may shout some cheroots, if you like, no champagne     For this child, Oh! think of my head in the morning,     Old chap, you dont get me on that lay again.     The last time those games I lookd likely to try on,     Says Bradshawe, Youll feel very sheepish and shy     When you are hauld up and cautiond by D--g--y and L--n,     Oh! credat Judaeus Apella, say I.     This writing bad verses is very fatiguing,     The brain and the liver against it combine,     And nerves with digestion in concert are leaguing,     To punish excess in the pen and ink line;     Already I feel just as if Id been rowing     Hard all, on a supper of onions and tripe     (A thing I abhor), but my steam Ive done blowing,     I am, my dear bell, yours truly, The Pipe.     P.S. Tell J. P., if he fancies a good un,     That old chestnut pony of mine is for sale.     N.B. His forelegs are uncommonly wooden,     I fancy the near ones beginning to fail,     And why shouldnt I do as W--n does oft,     And swear that a cripple is sound, on the Bible,     Hold hard! though the man I allude to is soft,     Hes game to go in for an action of libel.