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Poem	He came from "further out", That land of fear and drought And dust and gravel. He got a touch of sun, And rested at the run Until his cure was done, And he could travel. When spring had decked the plain, He flitted off again As flit the swallows. And from that western land, When many months were spanned, A letter came to hand, Which read as follows: "Dear Sir, I take my pen In hopes that all their men And you are hearty. You think that I've forgot Your kindness, Mr Scott; Oh, no, dear sir, I'm not That sort of party. "You sometimes bet, I know. Well, now you'll have a show The 'books' to frighten. Up here at Wingadee Young Billy Fife and me We're training Strife, and he Is a all right un. "Just now we're running byes, But, sir, first time he tries I'll send you word of. And running 'on the crook' Their measures we have took; It is the deadest hook You ever heard of. "So when we lets him go, Why then I'll let you know, And you can have a show To put a mite on. Now, sir, my leave I'll take, Yours truly, William Blake, P.S. -- Make no mistake, He's a all right un. By next week's Riverine I saw my friend had been A bit too cunning. I read: "The racehorse Strife And jockey William Fife Disqualified for life -- Suspicious running." But though they spoilt his game I reckon all the same I fairly ought to claim My friend a white un. For though he wasn't straight, His deeds would indicate His heart at any rate Was "a all right un".
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