Right Royal by Masefield, John, 1878-1967

So they rushed for one second, then Sir Lopez shot out: Charles thought, "There, he's done me, without any doubt. O come now, Right Royal!" And Sir Lopez changed feet And his ears went back level; Sir Lopez was beat.

Right Royal went past him, half an inch, half a head, Half a neck, he was leading, for an instant he led; Then a hooped black and coral flew up like a shot, With a lightning-like effort from little Gavotte.

The little bright mare, made of nerves and steel springs, Shot level beside him, shot ahead as with wings. Charles felt his horse quicken, felt the desperate beat Of the blood in his body from his knees to his feet.

Three terrible strides brought him up to the mare, Then they rushed to wild shouting through a whirl of blown air; Then Gavotte died to nothing; Soyland came once again Till his muzzle just reached to the knot on his rein.

Then a whirl of urged horses thundered up, whipped and blown, Soyland, Peterkinooks, and Red Ember the roan. For an instant they challenged, then they drooped and were done; Then the White Post shot backwards, Right Royal had won.

Won a half length from Soyland, Red Ember close third; Fourth, Peterkinooks; fifth, Gavotte harshly spurred; Sixth, Sir Lopez, whose rider said "Just at the Straight He swerved at the hurdle and twisted a plate."

Then the numbers went up; then John Harding appeared To lead in the Winner while the bookmakers cheered. Then the riders weighed-in, and the meeting was over, And bright Emmy Crowthorne could go with her lover.

For the bets on Right Royal which Cothill had made The taker defaulted, they never were paid; The taker went West, whence he sent Charles's bride Silver bit-cups and beadwork on antelope hide.

Charles married his lady, but he rode no more races; He lives on the Downland on the blown grassy places, Where he and Right Royal can canter for hours On the flock bitten turf full of tiny blue flowers.

There the Roman pitcht camp, there the Saxon kept sheep, There he lives out this Living that no man can keep, That is manful but a moment before it must pass, Like the stars sweeping westward, like the wind on the grass.

THE END.