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".