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Parole The Yankee Mule By SEABURY LAWRENCE Dedicated to Dr. 0. C. Farley Of all the runners I ever see, Sez the grizzled ol veteran vet to me The best of em all a hoss with a soul Wuz that there nut-brown colt Parole. Hed always stick an run his race Behind lh killinest kind o pace. He was by Leamington glorious sire Parole was there from post to wire. 01 Peer Lorrlard was a Prince o Men And he owned Rancocas stock farm, then Down Jobstown way in Jersey State, An there we trained our nut-brown skate. 01 Iroquois was bred there, too An a dozen more winners of the blue. 01 Peer, one day, got a funny notion Hed ship Parole acrost the ocean. The nag seemed stale on the Yankee tracks 01 Man said hed try out the English cracks. Nothin like tryin, was his ideer, Though we all figgered it sounded queer. But one day we moored in th Mersey tide An landed Parole on th stage longside. Th month was June an he didnt look good, His reddish wintry coat still stood; He never did shed till long in July, So he seemed sort o queer to the English eye. "Looks more like a mule than a hoss," sez a groom As we pulled into Newmarket for stable room. But he seemed to go smoother on English ground Began to look like he wuz comin round. Still Britishers laughed at him as a rule An he became known as the Yankee Mule. But ol Charley Littlefield didnt worry We trained him along in no great hurry. In the Cheshire Handicap found a place Where we figgered our little hoss could race. Then came the day on old Chester track That we must race neath the Union Jack. Ill never fergit th crowd was there The King an the commons an women fair. An old McGeorge sent th fields away Famed starter he wcarin top-hat gray. There was twenty-six in th Cheshire race With Astronomy favrit, to set the pace. Oh, great Astronomy, raw-boned with power Joels Astronomy, hoss o the hour. Young Porky Jeffries on our hosss back, Wearin Lorrlards colors th cherry and black. Not a bad kid rider ith head an hand, But up against Cannon, lh best in th land. Th crowd was bettin its money galore Most on Astronomy an two or three morej But us two Yanks, on fortunes wheel, Bet all we had, could borrow or steal, On littl Parole, our rusty hack, Gettin 6G to 1 for our jack. For th bookies gave us th laugh that day, Before th big field was sent away And it was a clinkin start they got With Westmount leadin th pace was hot And Astronomy next as they pass th stand With thunder of hoofs all runnin grand. An cheers resounded along the track But nary a cheer for the Cherry an Black. At the half Astronomy took the lead Tom Cannon was ridin a gallant steed; His backers roared in merry glee They figgered their bets was paid, you see. Up th back stretch th field was bunched With colors shinin an riders hunched. Over th hill, on Fiddlers Green, 01 Cannon wuz lookin back, serene Astronomy tin-cans still goin strong. Some go to th whip, which helps along, Some drop back, havin shot their bolt, An still we cant see our little brown colt. A dozen are bunched at the long far turn An flyin hoofs the green turf spurn. An now with th finish mark well within sight, Th crowd is shoutin with mad delight; A welcome roar from Astronomys win Already theyve started t count their tin. But us poor Yanks Littlefield an me, Have got no reason t shout with glee. With thunderin rush they come into th stretch, Boys whippin hard on th last game fetch. But now out o th bunch shoots a cherry jacket, An th crowd, like magic, stops its racket But Littlefield lets out a wild halloo Good God! Parole is comin through. Along on the rail like a rusty flash, And I see Porky Jeffries crimson sash. That mule Parole is makin his run, An now its our turn t have some fun. Astronomys caught a furlong fm home An stride f r stride down stretch they come My knees go weak an I start t scream Jeffries hand-ridin Parole like a dream. Desperate, Cannon to whip he goes Twenty yard fm th wire theyre nose an nose. Paroles ears laid back eyes flashin, too Hes makin his finish straight an true. Littlefield shrieks an th crowd goes wild, To see great Astronomys honor defiled. In th last grim jump of finishing fire Parole by an inch at the winning wire. Littlefield an me we raved an danced As back to th stand th racers pranced. An we had so much money we couldnt spend it, Although we had plenty o chance t lend it. An thats th true tale o th Yankee Mule, Which shows the exception proves th rule.
