Robin was tailing and pecked at a paling,
   Leah’s gone weak in her feet;
Boadicea came down at the railing,
   Son of the Sea is dead beat. 
Leather to leather, they’re pounding together,
   Three of them all in a row;
And Irish Nuneaton, who never was beaten,
   Is level with Spider and Flo.

It’s into the straight from the Whittlesea gate,
   Clean galloping over the green,
But four foot high the hurdles lie
   With a sunken ditch between. 
’Tis a bit of a test for a beast at its best,
   And the devil and all at its worst;
But it’s clear run in with the Cup to win
   For the horse that is over it first.

So try it, my beauties, and fly it, my beauties,
   Spider, Nuneaton, and Flo;
With a trip and a blunder there’s one of them under,
   Hark to it crashing below! 
Is it the brown or the sorrel that’s down? 
   The brown!  It is Flo who is in! 
And Spider with Chauncy, the pick of the fancy,
   Is going full split for a win.

‘Spider is winning!’ ‘Jo Chauncy is winning!’
   ‘He’s winning!  He’s winning!  Bravo!’
The bookies are raving, the ladies are waving,
   The Stand is all shouting for Jo. 
The horse is clean done, but the race may be won
   By the Newmarket lad on his back;
For the fire of the rider may bring an outsider
   Ahead of a thoroughbred crack.

‘Spider is winning!’ ‘Jo Chauncy is winning!’
   It swells like the roar of the sea;
But Jo hears the drumming of somebody coming,
   And sees a lean head by his knee. 
‘Nuneaton!  Nuneaton!  The Spider is beaten!’
   It is but a spurt at the most;
For lose it or win it, they have but a minute
   Before they are up with the post.

Nuneaton is straining, Nuneaton is gaining,
   Neither will falter nor flinch;
Whips they are plying and jackets are flying,
   They’re fairly abreast to an inch. 
’Crack em up!  Let ’em go!  Well ridden!  Bravo!’
   Gamer ones never were bred;
Jo Chauncy has done it!  He’s spurted!  He’s won it!’
   The favourite’s beat by a head!

Don’t tell me of luck, for its judgment and pluck
   And a courage that never will shirk;
To give your mind to it and know how to do it
   And put all your heart in your work. 
So here’s to the Spider, the winning outsider,
   With little Jo Chauncy up;
May they stay life’s course, both jockey and horse,
   As they stayed in the Farnshire Cup.

But it’s possible that you are wondering what
   May have happened to Farmer Brown,
And the old gray crock of Isonomy stock
   Who was backed by the sharps from town. 
She blew and she sneezed, she coughed and she wheezed,
   She ran till her knees gave way. 
But never a grumble at trip or at stumble
   Was heard from her jock that day.