10 Best Famous Winner Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Winner poems. This is a select list of the best famous Winner poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Winner poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of winner poems.

• All Famous Winner Poems

 No man can be a failure if he thinks he's a success;
he may not own his roof-tree overhead,
He may be on his uppers and have hocked his evening dress -
(Financially speaking - in the red)
He may have chronic shortage to repay the old home mortgage,
And almost be a bankrupt in his biz.,
But though he skips his dinner,
And each day he's growing thinner,
If he thinks he is a winner,
 Then he is. 

But when I say Success I mean the sublimated kind;
A man may gain it yet be on the dole.
To me it's music of the heart and sunshine of the mind,
Serenity and sweetness of the soul.
You may not have a brace of bucks to jingle in your jeans,
Far less the dough to buy a motor car;
But though the row you're hoeing
May be grim, ungodly going,
If you think the skies are glowing -
 Then they are.

For a poor man may be wealthy and a millionaire may fail,
It all depends upon the point of view.
It's the sterling of your spirit tips the balance of the scale,
It's optimism, and it's up to you.
For what I figure as success is simple Happiness,
The consummate contentment of your mood:
You may toil with brain and sinew,
And though little wealth is win you,
If there's health and hope within you -
 You've made good.

You will not be able to stay home, brother
 You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out
 You will not be able to lose yourself on skag
 And skip out for beer during commercials
 Because the revolution will not be televised

The revolution will not be televised
 The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
 In 4 parts without commercial interruptions
 The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
 Blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John Mitchell
 General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat hog maws
 Confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary
 The revolution will not be televised

 The revolution will not be brought to you by the
 Schaefer Award Theater and will not star Natalie Woods
 And Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia
 The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal
 The revolution will not get rid of the nubs
 The revolution will not make you look five pounds thinner
 Because the revolution will not be televised, Brother

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
 Pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run
 Or trying to slide that color TV into a stolen ambulance
 NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
 Or report from 29 districts
 The revolution will not be televised

 There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
 Brothers on the instant replay
 There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
 Brothers on the instant replay

There will be no pictures of Whitney Young
 Being run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process
 There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy Wilkens
 Strolling through Watts in a red, black and green
 Liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
 For just the proper occasion

 Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies and Hooter ville Junction
 Will no longer be so damned relevant
 And women will not care if Dick finally gets down with Jane
 On search for tomorrow because black people
 Will be in the street looking for a brighter day
 The revolution will not be televised

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock news
 And no pictures of hairy armed women liberationists
 And Jackie Onassis blowing her nose
 The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb
 Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom Jones
 Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink or the Rare Earth
 The revolution will not be televised

 The revolution will not be right back after a message
 About a white tornado, white lightning, or white people
 You will not have to worry about a dove in your bedroom
 The tiger in your tank or the giant in your toilet bowl
 The revolution will not go better with Coke
 The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath
 The revolution will put you in the driver's seat

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised
 Will not be televised, will not be televised
 The revolution will be no re-run brothers
 The revolution will be live

 Bring me a quart of colonial beer 
And some doughy damper to make good cheer, 
I must make a heavy dinner; 
Heavily dine and heavily sup, 
Of indigestible things fill up, 
Next month they run the Melbourne Cup, 
And I have to dream the winner. 
Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham, 
The rich ragout and the charming cham., 
I've got to mix my liquor; 
Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg, 
Hard and tough as a wooden peg, 
And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg, 
'Twill make me dream the quicker. 

Now that I'm full of fearful feed, 
Oh, but I'll dream of a winner indeed 
In my restless, troubled slumber; 
While the night-mares race through my heated brain 
And their devil-riders spur amain, 
The trip for the Cup will reward my pain, 
And I'll spot the winning number. 

Thousands and thousands and thousands more, 
Like sands on the white Pacific shore, 
The crowding people cluster; 
For evermore is the story old, 
While races are bought and backers are sold, 
Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold, 
In their thousands still they muster. 

* * * * * 

And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot, 
"I'll lay the Cup! The double, if not!" 
"Five monkeys, Little John, sir!" 
"Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!" 
And so they shout through the livelong day, 
And stick to the game that is sure to pay, 
While fools put money on, sir! 

And now in my dream I seem to go 
And bet with a "book" that I seem to know -- 
A Hebrew money-lender; 
A million to five is the price I get -- 
Not bad! but before I book the bet 
The horse's name I clean forgret, 
Its number and even gender. 

Now for the start, and here they come, 
And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum 
Beat by a hand unsteady; 
They come like a rushing, roaring flood, 
Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood; 
For Acme is making the pace so good 
They are some of 'em done already. 

But round the track she begins to tire, 
And a mighty shout goes up "Crossfire!" 
The magpie jacket's leading; 
And Crossfire challenges fierce and bold, 
And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold, 
But at length gives way to the black and gold, 
Which right to the front is speeding. 

Carry them on and keep it up -- 
A flying race is the Melbourne Cup, 
You must race and stay to win it; 
And old Commotion, Victoria's pride, 
Now takes the lead with his raking stride, 
And a mighty roar goes far and wide -- 
"There's only Commotion in it!" 

But one draws out from the beaten ruck 
And up on the rails by a piece of luck 
He comes in a style that's clever; 
"It's Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!" 
"Go at 'em now while their courage fails;" 
"Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!" 
"The blue and white for ever!" 

Under the whip! with the ears flat back, 
Under the whip! though the sinews crack, 
No sign of the base white feather: 
Stick to it now for your breeding's sake, 
Stick to it now though your hearts should break, 
While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake, 
They come down the straignt together. 

Trident slowly forges ahead, 
The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red, 
The pace is undiminished 
Now for the Panics that never fail! 
But many a backer's face grows pale 
As old Commotion swings his tail 
And swerves -- and the Cup is finished. 

* * * * * 

And now in my dream it all comes back: 
I bet my coin on the Sydney crack, 
A million I've won, no question! 
"Give me my money, you hook-nosed hog! 
Give me my money, bookmaking dog!" 
But he disappeared in a kind of fog, 
And I woke with "the indigestion".

 Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind—
So are his days spent, his spittled mirth
Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks
Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.
And then at night see him fixed in his chair
Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothes, sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season
Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,
Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress
Not to be stormed, even in death's confusion.
Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars,
Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.

 The boys had come back from the races 
All silent and down on their luck; 
They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places, 
But never a winner they's struck. 
They lost their good money on Slogan, 
And fell most uncommonly flat 
When Partner, the pride of the Bogan, 
Was beaten by Aristocrat. 
And one said, "I move that instanter 
We sell out our horses and quit; 
The brutes ought to win in a canter, 
Such trials they do when they're fit. 
The last one they ran was a snorter -- 
A gallop to gladden one's heart -- 
Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter, 
And finished as straight as a dart. 

"And then when I think that they're ready 
To win me a nice little swag, 
They are licked like the veriest neddy -- 
They're licked from the fall of the flag. 
The mare held her own to the stable, 
She died out to nothing at that, 
And Partner he never seemed able 
To pace with the Aristocrat. 

"And times have been bad, and the seasons 
Don't promise to be of the best; 
In short, boys, there's plenty of reasons 
For giving the racing a rest. 
The mare can be kept on the station -- 
Her breeding is good as can be -- 
But Partner, his next destination 
Is rather a trouble to me. 

"We can't sell him here, for they know him 
As well as the clerk of the course; 
He's raced and won races till, blow him, 
He's done as a handicap horse. 
A jady, uncertain performer, 
They weight him right out of the hunt, 
And clap it on warmer and warmer 
Whenever he gets near the front. 

"It's no use to paint him or dot him 
Or put any fake on his brand, 
For bushmen are smart, and they'd spot him 
In any sale-yard in the land. 
The folk about here could all tell him, 
Could swear to each separate hair; 
Let us send him to Sydney and sell him, 
There's plenty of Jugginses there. 

"We'll call him a maiden, and treat 'em 
To trials will open their eyes; 
We'll run their best horses and beat 'em, 
And then won't they think him a prize. 
I pity the fellow that buys him, 
He'll find in a very short space, 
No matter how highly he tries him, 
The beggar won't race in a race." 

* * * * * 

Next week, under "Seller and Buyer", 
Appeared in the Daily Gazette: 
"A racehorse for sale, and a flyer; 
Has never been started as yet; 
A trial will show what his pace is; 
The buyer can get him in light, 
And win all the handicap races. 
Apply before Saturday night." 

He sold for a hundred and thirty, 
Because of a gallop he had 
One morning with Bluefish and Bertie. 
And donkey-licked both of 'em bad. 
And when the old horse had departed, 
The life on the station grew tame; 
The race-track was dull and deserted, 
The boys had gone back on the game. 

* * * * * 

The winter rolled by, and the station 
Was green with the garland of Spring; 
A spirit of glad exultation 
Awoke in each animate thing; 
And all the old love, the old longing, 
Broke out in the breasts of the boys -- 
The visions of racing came thronging 
With all its delirious joys. 

The rushing of floods in their courses, 
The rattle of rain on the roofs, 
Recalled the fierce rush of the horses, 
The thunder of galloping hoofs. 
And soon one broke out: "I can suffer 
No longer the life of a slug; 
The man that don't race is a duffer, 
Let's have one more run for the mug. 

"Why, everything races, no matter 
Whatever its method may be: 
The waterfowl hold a regatta; 
The possums run heats up a tree; 
The emus are constantly sprinting 
A handicap out on the plain; 
It seems that all nature is hinting 
'Tis ime to be at it again. 

"The cockatoo parrots are talking 
Of races to far-away lands; 
The native companions are walking 
A go-as-you-please on the sands; 
The little foals gallop for pastime; 
The wallabies race down the gap; 
Let's try it once more for the last time -- 
Bring out the old jacket and cap. 

"And now for a horse; we might try one 
Of those that are bred on the place. 
But I fancy it's better to buy one, 
A horse that has proved he can race. 
Let us send down to Sydney to Skinner, 
A thorough good judge who can ride, 
And ask him to buy us a spinner 
To clean out the whole country-side." 

They wrote him a letter as follows: 
"we want you to buy us a horse; 
He must have the speed to catch swallows, 
And stamina with it, of course. 
The price ain't a thing that'll grieve us, 
It's getting a bad un annoys 
The undersigned blokes, and believe us, 
We're yours to a cinder, 'the boys'." 

He answered: "I've bought you a hummer, 
A horse that has never been raced; 
I saw him run over the Drummer, 
He held him outclassed and outpaced. 
His breeding's not known, but they state he 
Is born of a thoroughbred strain. 
I've paid them a hundred and eighty, 
And started the horse in the train." 

They met him -- alas, that these verses 
Aren't up to their subject's demands, 
Can't set forth thier eloquent curses -- 
For Partner was back in their hands. 
They went in to meet him with gladness 
They opened his box with delight -- 
A silent procession of sadness 
They crept to the station at night. 

And life has grown dull on the station, 
The boys are all silent and slow; 
Their work is a daily vexation, 
And sport is unknown to them now. 
Whenever they think how they stranded, 
They squeal just as guinea-pigs squeal; 
They'd bit their own hook, and were landed 
With fifty pounds loss on the deal.

 Said Jones: "I'm glad my wife's not clever;
Her intellect is second-rate.
If she was witty she would never
Give me a chance to scintillate;
But cap my humorous endeavour
And make me seem as addle-pate."

Said Smith: "I'm glad my wife's no beauty,
For if a siren's charm she had,
And stinted her domestic duty,
I fear that she would drive me mad:
For I am one of those sad fellows
Who are unreasonably jealous."

Said Brown: ""I know my wife's not witty,
Nor is she very long on looks;
She's neither humorous nor pretty,
But oh how she divinely cooks!
You guys must come some night to dinner -
You'll see my little girl's a winner."

So it's important in our lives,
(Exaggerating more or less),
To be content with our wives,
And prize the virtues they possess;
And with dispraise to turn one's back
On all the qualities they lack.

 "Young fellow, listen to a friend:
Beware of wedlock - 'tis a gamble,
It's MAN who holds the losing end
In every matrimonial scramble."

"Young lady, marriage mostly is
A cruel cross of hope's concealing.
A rarity is wedded bliss
And WOMAN gets the dirty dealing."

. . . Such my advice to man and maid,
But though they harken few will take it.
The parson plies his merry trade
The marriage seems much what you make it.

If Pa or Ma had counsel sought
Of me whose locks today are hoary,
And feared to tie the nuptial knot -
Would I be here to tell the story?

Nay, lad and lass, don't flout romance,
Nor heed this cynical old sinner;
Like bold Columbus take a chance,
And may your number be a winner.

Far be it from me to advise,
But in the marital relation
The safest bet is Compromise
And Mutual Consideration.

 You never heard tell of the story? 
Well, now, I can hardly believe! 
Never heard of the honour and glory 
Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve? 
But maybe you're only a Johnnie 
And don't know a horse from a hoe? 
Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny, 
But, really, a young un should know. 
They bred him out back on the "Never", 
His mother was Mameluke breed. 
To the front -- and then stay there - was ever 
The root of the Mameluke creed. 
He seemed to inherit their wiry 
Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive -- 
As hard as a flint and as fiery 
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. 

We ran him at many a meeting 
At crossing and gully and town, 
And nothing could give him a beating -- 
At least when our money was down. 
For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance, 
Nor odds, though the others were fast; 
He'd race with a dogged persistence, 
And wear them all down at the last. 

At the Turon the Yattendon filly 
Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half, 
And we all began to look silly, 
While her crowd were starting to laugh; 
But the old horse came faster and faster, 
His pluck told its tale, and his strength, 
He gained on her, caught her, and passed her, 
And won it, hands down, by a length. 

And then we swooped down on Menindie 
To run for the President's Cup; 
Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy 
To them is board, lodging, and sup. 
Eye-openers they are, and their system 
Is never to suffer defeat; 
It's "win, tie, or wrangle" -- to best 'em 
You must lose 'em, or else it's "dead heat". 

We strolled down the township and found 'em 
At drinking and gaming and play; 
If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em, 
And betting was soon under way. 
Their horses were good uns and fit uns, 
There was plenty of cash in the town; 
They backed their own horses like Britons, 
And, Lord! how we rattled it down! 

With gladness we thought of the morrow, 
We counted our wages with glee, 
A simile homely to borrow -- 
"There was plenty of milk in our tea." 
You see we were green; and we never 
Had even a thought of foul play, 
Though we well might have known that the clever 
Division would "put us away". 

Experience docet, they tell us, 
At least so I've frequently heard; 
But, "dosing" or "stuffing", those fellows 
Were up to each move on the board: 
They got to his stall -- it is sinful 
To think what such villains will do -- 
And they gave him a regular skinful 
Of barley -- green barley -- to chew. 

He munched it all night, and we found him 
Next morning as full as a hog -- 
The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him; 
He looked like an overfed frog. 
We saw we were done like a dinner -- 
The odds were a thousand to one 
Against Pardon turning up winner, 
'Twas cruel to ask him to run. 

We got to the course with our troubles, 
A crestfallen couple were we; 
And we heard the " books" calling the doubles -- 
A roar like the surf of the sea. 
And over the tumult and louder 
Rang "Any price Pardon, I lay!" 
Says Jimmy, "The children of Judah 
Are out on the warpath today." 

Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny, 
The horses in those days were stout, 
They had to run well to win money; 
I don't see such horses about. 
Your six-furlong vermin that scamper 
Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up, 
They wouldn't earn much of their damper 
In a race like the President's Cup. 

The first heat was soon set a-going; 
The Dancer went off to the front; 
The Don on his quarters was showing, 
With Pardon right out of the hunt. 
He rolled and he weltered and wallowed -- 
You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet; 
They finished all bunched, and he followed 
All lathered and dripping with sweat. 

But troubles came thicker upon us, 
For while we were rubbing him dry 
The stewards came over to warn us: 
"We hear you are running a bye! 
If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation 
And win the next heat -- if he can -- 
He'll earn a disqualification; 
Just think over that now, my man!" 

Our money all gone and our credit, 
Our horse couldn't gallop a yard; 
And then people thought that we did it 
It really was terribly hard. 
We were objects of mirth and derision 
To folks in the lawn and the stand, 
Anf the yells of the clever division 
Of "Any price Pardon!" were grand. 

We still had a chance for the money, 
Two heats remained to be run: 
If both fell to us -- why, my sonny, 
The clever division were done. 
And Pardon was better, we reckoned, 
His sickness was passing away, 
So we went to the post for the second 
And principal heat of the day. 

They're off and away with a rattle, 
Like dogs from the leashes let slip, 
And right at the back of the battle 
He followed them under the whip. 
They gained ten good lengths on him quickly 
He dropped right away from the pack; 
I tell you it made me feel sickly 
To see the blue jacket fall back. 

Our very last hope had departed -- 
We thought the old fellow was done, 
When all of a sudden he started 
To go like a shot from a gun. 
His chances seemed slight to embolden 
Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set, 
We thought, "Now or never! The old un 
May reckon with some of 'em yet." 

Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon; 
He swept like the wind down the dip, 
And over the rise by the garden 
The jockey was done with the whip. 
The field was at sixes and sevens -- 
The pace at the first had been fast -- 
And hope seemed to drop from the heavens, 
For Pardon was coming at last. 

And how he did come! It was splendid; 
He gained on them yards every bound, 
Stretching out like a greyhound extended, 
His girth laid right down on the ground. 
A shimmer of silk in the cedars 
As into the running they wheeled, 
And out flashed the whips on the leaders, 
For Pardon had collared the field. 

Then right through the ruck he was sailing -- 
I knew that the battle was won -- 
The son of Haphazard was failing, 
The Yattendon filly was done; 
He cut down The Don and The Dancer, 
He raced clean away from the mare -- 
He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir! 
And up went my hat in the air! 

Then loud fron the lawn and the garden 
Rose offers of "Ten to one on!" 
"Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!" 
No use; all the money was gone. 
He came for the third heat light-hearted, 
A-jumping and dancing about; 
The others were done ere they started 
Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out. 

He won it, and ran it much faster 
Than even the first, I believe; 
Oh, he was the daddy, the master, 
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. 
He showed 'em the method of travel -- 
The boy sat still as a stone -- 
They never could see him for gravel; 
He came in hard-held, and alone. 

* * * * * * * 

But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow 
Like me, with my thatch of the snow; 
When he dies, then I hope I may follow, 
And go where the racehorses go. 
I don't want no harping nor singing -- 
Such things with my style don't agree; 
Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing 
There's music sufficient for me. 

And surely the thoroughbred horses 
Will rise up again and begin 
Fresh faces on far-away courses, 
And p'raps they might let me slip in. 
It would look rather well the race-card on 
'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things, 
"Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon, 
Blue halo, white body and wings." 

And if they have racing hereafter, 
(And who is to say they will not?) 
When the cheers and the shouting and laughter 
Proclaim that the battle grows hot; 
As they come down the racecourse a-steering, 
He'll rush to the front, I believe; 
And you'll hear the great multitude cheering 
For Pardon, the son of Reprieve

 Pavement slipp'ry, people sneezing,
Lords in ermine, beggars freezing ;
Titled gluttons dainties carving,
Genius in a garret starving.

Lofty mansions, warm and spacious ;
Courtiers clinging and voracious ;
Misers scarce the wretched heeding ;
Gallant soldiers fighting, bleeding.

Wives who laugh at passive spouses ;
Theatres, and meeting-houses ;
Balls, where simp'ring misses languish ;
Hospitals, and groans of anguish.

Arts and sciences bewailing ;
Commerce drooping, credit failing ;
Placemen mocking subjects loyal ;
Separations, weddings royal.

Authors who can't earn a dinner ;
Many a subtle rogue a winner ;
Fugitives for shelter seeking ;
Misers hoarding, tradesmen breaking.

Taste and talents quite deserted ;
All the laws of truth perverted ;
Arrogance o'er merit soaring ;
Merit silently deploring.

Ladies gambling night and morning ;
Fools the works of genius scorning ;
Ancient dames for girls mistaken,
Youthful damsels quite forsaken.

Some in luxury delighting ;
More in talking than in fighting ;
Lovers old, and beaux decrepid ;
Lordlings empty and insipid.

Poets, painters, and musicians ;
Lawyers, doctors, politicians :
Pamphlets, newspapers, and odes,
Seeking fame by diff'rent roads.

Gallant souls with empty purses ;
Gen'rals only fit for nurses ;
School-boys, smit with martial spirit,
Taking place of vet'ran merit.

Honest men who can't get places,
Knaves who shew unblushing faces ;
Ruin hasten'd, peace retarded ;
Candour spurn'd, and art rewarded.

 Now as an angler melancholy standing
Upon a green bank yielding room for landing,
A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook,
Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook:
Here pulls his line, there throws it in again,
Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain,
He long stands viewing of the curled stream;
At last a hungry pike, or well-grown bream
Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away,
He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway,
Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill,
Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill;
Then all his line he freely yieldeth him,
Whilst furiously all up and down doth swim
Th' insnared fish, here on the top doth scud,
There underneath the banks, then in the mud,
And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal,
That each one takes his hide, or starting hole:
By this the pike, clean wearied, underneath
A willow lies, and pants (if fishes breathe)
Wherewith the angler gently pulls him to him,
And lest his haste might happen to undo him,
Lays down his rod, then takes his line in hand,
And by degrees getting the fish to land,
Walks to another pool: at length is winner
Of such a dish as serves him for his dinner:
So when the climber half the way had got,
Musing he stood, and busily 'gan plot
How (since the mount did always steeper tend)
He might with steps secure his journey end.
At last (as wand'ring boys to gather nuts)
A hooked pole he from a hazel cuts;
Now throws it here, then there to take some hold,
But bootless and in vain, the rocky mould
Admits no cranny where his hazel hook
Might promise him a step, till in a nook
Somewhat above his reach he hath espied
A little oak, and having often tried
To catch a bough with standing on his toe,
Or leaping up, yet not prevailing so,
He rolls a stone towards the little tree,
Then gets upon it, fastens warily
His pole unto a bough, and at his drawing
The early-rising crow with clam'rous cawing,
Leaving the green bough, flies about the rock,
Whilst twenty twenty couples to him flock:
And now within his reach the thin leaves wave,
With one hand only then he holds his stave,
And with the other grasping first the leaves,
A pretty bough he in his fist receives;
Then to his girdle making fast the hook,
His other hand another bough hath took;
His first, a third, and that, another gives,
To bring him to the place where his root lives.
Then, as a nimble squirrel from the wood,
Ranging the hedges for his filberd-food,
Sits peartly on a bough his brown nuts cracking,
And from the shell the sweet white kernel taking,
Till with their crooks and bags a sort of boys,
To share with him, come with so great a noise,
That he is forc'd to leave a nut nigh broke,
And for his life leap to a neighbour oak,
Thence to a beech, thence to a row of ashes;
Whilst through the quagmires, and red water plashes,
The boys run dabbling thorough thick and thin;
One tears his hose, another breaks his shin,
This, torn and tatter'd, hath with much ado
Got by the briars; and that hath lost his shoe;
This drops his band; that headlong falls for haste;
Another cries behind for being last;
With sticks and stones, and many a sounding holloa,
The little fool, with no small sport, they follow,
Whilst he, from tree to tree, from spray to spray,
Gets to the wood, and hides him in his dray:
Such shift made Riot ere he could get up,
And so from bough to bough he won the top,
Though hindrances, for ever coming there,
Were often thrust upon him by Despair.