Oh, this is the week when no rhymster may rhyme
On the joy of the bush or the ills of the time,
   Nor pour out his soul in delectable rhythm
   Of women and wine and the lure they have with 'em,
Nor pen philosophic if foolish discourses,
Because of the fury of galloping horses.

Galloping, galloping thro' the refrain --
The lure and the lilt of it beat on the brain.
   Strive as you may for Arcadian Themes,
   The silks and the saddles will weave thro' your dreams.
Surging, and urging the visions aside
For a lyrical lay of equestrian pride,
   For the roar of the race and the call of the courses,
   And galloping, galloping, galloping horses.

This is the week for the apotheosis
Of Horse in his glory, from tail to proboscis.
   That curious quadrupled, proud and aloof,
   That holds all the land under thrall of his hoof.
All creeds and conditions, all factions and forces,
All, all must give way to the galloping horses.

Galloping, galloping -- sinner and saint
March to the metre, releasing restraint.
   If it isn't the Cup it's the Oaks or the Steeple
   That wraps in its magic the minds of the people.
Whether they seek it for profit or pleasure,
They all, willy-nilly, must dance to the measure.
   The mood of the moment in all men endorses
   The glamorous game and the galloping horses --
Galloping horses -- jockeys and courses --
They gallop, we gallop with galloping horses.

Herald, 5 November 1932