You've breed, style, and mettle, and look in rare fettle.
If _I_ had to settle, you know what _I_'d do!

These gentlemen-riders deem all are outsiders
Save them: as if gent ever made A 1 jock!
Ah! ADAM L. GORDON,[1] poor chap, had a word on
Such matters. I'll warrant _he_ sat like a rock,
And went like a blizzard. Yes, beauty, it _is_ hard
To eat off your head in the stable like this.
Too long you have idled; but wait till you're bridled!
_The_ hunt of the season I swear you won't miss,

It has been hard weather, although, beauty, whether
'Tis that altogether your chance that postponed,
Or whether Boss SOLLY committed a folly--
No matter! A comelier crack he ne'er owned,
Although 'tis I say it who shouldn't. The way it
Has snowed and has frozen may be his excuse;
But when you're once started, deer-limbed, lion-hearted,
I warrant, my beauty, you'll go like the deuce.

"A lean head and fiery, strong quarters, and wiry,
A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb,"
That's GORDON's description of _Iseult_. (All whip shun
When riding such rattlers, and trust to the curb.)
That mare was your sort, lad. I guess there'll be sport, lad,
When _you_ make strong running, and near the last jump.
And you, when extended, look "bloodlike and splendid."
Ah! poor LINDSAY GORDON was sportsman and trump.