Andrew Barton Paterson (Эндрю Бартон Патерсон)
Mulligan’s Mare
Oh, Mulligan’s bar was the deuce of a place To drink, and to fight, and to gamble and race; The height of choice spirits from near and from far Were all concentrated on Mulligan’s bar. There was ”Jerry the Swell”, and the jockey-boy Ned, ”Dog-bite-me” -- so called from the shape of his head -- And a man whom the boys, in their musical slang, Designated the ”Gaffer of Mulligan’s Gang”. Now Mulligan’s Gang had a racer to show, A bad un to look at, a good un to go; Whenever they backed her you safely might swear She’d walk in a winner, would Mulligan’s mare. But Mulligan, having some radical views, Neglected his business and got on the booze; He took up with runners -- a treacherous troop -- Who gave him away, and he ”fell in the soup”. And so it turned out on a fine summer day, A bailiff turned up with a writ of ”fi. fa.”; He walked to the bar with a manner serene, ”I levy,” said he, ”in the name of the Queen.” Then Mulligan wanted, in spite of the law, To pay out the bailiff with ”one on the jaw”; He drew out to hit him; but ere you could wink, He changed his intention and stood him a drink. A great consultation there straightway befell ’Twixt jockey-boy Neddy and Jerry the Swell, And the man with the head, who remarked ”Why, you bet! Dog-bite-me!” said he, ”but we’ll diddle ’em yet. ”We’ll slip out the mare from her stall in a crack, And put in her place the old broken-down hack; The hack is so like her, I’m ready to swear The bailiff will think he has Mulligan’s mare. ”So out with the racer and in with the screw, We’ll show him what Mulligan’s talent can do; And if he gets nasty and dares to say much, I’ll knock him as stiff as my grandfather’s crutch.” Then off to the town went the mare and the lad; The bailiff came out, never dreamt he was ”had”; But marched to the stall with a confident air -- ”I levy,” said he, ”upon Mulligan’s mare.” He watched her by day and he watched her by night, She was never an instant let out of his sight, For races were coming away in the West And Mulligan’s mare had a chance with the best. ”Here’s a slant,” thought the bailiff, ”to serve my own ends, I’ll send off a wire to my bookmaking friends: ’Get all you can borrow, beg, snavel or snare And lay the whole lot against Mulligan’s mare.’” The races came round, and the crowd on the course Were laying the mare till they made themselves hoarse, And Mulligan’s party, with ardour intense, They backed her for pounds and for shillings and pence. But think of the grief of the bookmaking host At the sound of the summons to go to the post -- For down to the start with her thoroughbred air As fit as a fiddle pranced Mulligan’s mare! They started, and off went the boy to the front, He cleared out at once, and he made it a hunt; He steadied as rounding the corner they wheeled, Then gave her her head -- and she smothered the field. The race put her owner right clear of his debts; He landed a fortune in stakes and in bets, He paid the old bailiff the whole of his pelf, And gave him a hiding to keep for himself. So all you bold sportsmen take warning, I pray, Keep clear of the running, you’ll find it don’t pay; For the very best rule that you’ll hear in a week Is never to bet on a thing that can speak. And whether you’re lucky or whether you lose, Keep clear of the cards and keep clear of the booze, And fortune in season will answer your prayer And send you a flyer like Mulligan’s mare.
Andrew Barton Paterson’s other poems:
942
