The Song of the Man Who Drives

Here's a toast to the kings and the health of the queens
Of the echoing oval course;
And a song of the steel that is forged for the wheel
And the hoof of the blue-blood horse!
There's the song of the steel that is forged for the wars--
The song of the long, bright sword;
The chant of the weapon the patriot draws
In defence of his land, in support of its laws--
In the cause that his heart has adored.
But the sword that is bared to the glint of the sun,
--Who knows when that sword will be sheathed?
For strife plunges hotly when once'tis begun,
So the steel of the sword I forswear and I shun,
And the horrors its edge has bequeathed.
No, I vaunt the honest circlet to a worthy use applied--
The steel that flashes swiftly in the broad twominute stride;
The steel that clinking hammers in the forges' clang and heat
Have shaped with merry music for a trotter's twinkling feet.
You may choose the glint of sabres or the gleam of martial arms,
As for me the vibrant flashing of those hoofs has greater charms,
As I ride the swaying sulky and we cleave the singing air,
And I hear the merry rick-tack of the trotting of my mare.
Now what are the prizes of war, my boy,
Or the honors of kingdom and court
To a chap that's contented with honester joy
Than desperate ventures that crush and destroy
In the din of the battlefield's sport?
I envy no prowess of warriors of old
Astride of a mail-clad steed.
And I challenge the right of the furious might
That forces an innocent victim to fight
For human ambition or greed.
But ho, for the rush of the steel-shod feet
When the clink of the bright shoe rings--
When the flickering hoofs down the homestretch beat
And I on the perch of the sulky seat
Drive hard in the Sport of Kings.
I pledge to you the honor of the ringing, singing course,
When the tautened reins are throbbing with the motion of the horse,
When the glossy shoulders glisten with the twitching muscles' play,
Beating time in swift staccato to the slender sulky's sway.
Let the roaring stand go crazy as we finish at the pole--
'Tis no human acclamation that avails to stir my soul,
'Tis the batter and the clatter of those hoofs that ring and beat,
'Tis the rhythm and the music of those flashing little feet--
'Tis the sympathy between us, all a-quiver in the reins,
Till I almost feel the pulsing of the current in her veins,
And I have no eye or hearing for the vain acclaim of man
When my heart and soul are throbbing with her hoof-beats' rataplan.
To the king of the course! To the queen of the track! .
What matter their breeding or name?
To all that have battled the second-hand back
Here's tribute in measure the same.
Here's a toast to the king and the health of the queen,
Who reign on the oval course,
--To the stout, stout steel! forged true for the wheel
Or the hoof of the blue-blood horse.