Best Australian Racing Stories

by Jim Haynes

  While fools put money on, sir!

  And now in my dream I seem to go

  And bet with a ‘book’ that I seem to know—

  A Hebrew money-lender;

  A million to five is the price I get—

  Not bad! but before I book the bet

  The horse’s name I clean forget,

  Its number and even gender.

  Now for the start, and here they come,

  And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum

  Beat by a hand unsteady;

  They come like a rushing, roaring flood,

  Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood;

  For Acme is making the pace so good

  There are some of ’em done already.

  But round the back she begins to tire,

  And a mighty shout goes up, ‘Crossfire!’

  The magpie jacket’s leading;

  And Crossfire challenges, fierce and bold,

  And the lead she’ll have and the lead she’ll hold,

  But at length gives way to the black and gold,

  Which away to the front is speeding.

  Carry them on and keep it up—

  A flying race is the Melbourne Cup,

  You must race and stay to win it;

  And old Commotion, Victoria’s pride,

  Now takes the lead with his raking stride,

  And a mighty roar goes far and wide—

  ‘There’s only Commotion in it!’

  But one draws out from the beaten ruck

  And up on the rails by a piece of luck

  He comes in a style that’s clever;

  ‘It’s Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!’

  ‘Go at ’em now while their courage fails’;

  ‘Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!’

  ‘The blue and white for ever!’

  Under the whip! with the ears flat back,

  Under the whip! though the sinews crack,

  No sign of the base white feather;

  Stick to it now for your breeding’s sake,

  Stick to it now though your hearts should break,

  While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake,

  They come down the straight together.

  Trident slowly forges ahead,

  The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red,

  The pace is undiminished;

  Now for the Panics that never fail!

  But many a backer’s face grows pale

  As old Commotion swings his tail

  And swerves—and the Cup is finished.

  And now in my dream it all comes back:

  I bet my coin on the Sydney crack,

  A million I’ve won, no question!

  Give me my money, you hooked-nosed hog

  Give me my money, bookmaking dog

  But he disappeared in a kind of fog . . .

  And I woke with ‘the indigestion’.

  Poets, bushies and a fair go

  It is obvious that, when Paterson wrote ‘A Dream of the Melbourne Cup’, the Cup had already developed a special place in our culture and folklore, although as a sporting institution it was a mere 25 years old.

  In that relatively short time, the Cup had become a pivotal event in the year’s calendar and, for many bushmen as well as residents of other cities, a trip to see the running of the race was the sporting equivalent of a pilgrimage to Rome or a hajj to Mecca for the devoutly religious.

  Several years after Paterson’s poem was published, Breaker Morant, writing about the joys of the life of drovers and itinerant bushmen, mentions this pilgrimage in a poem titled ‘Westward Ho!’:

  We may not camp to-morrow, for we’ve many a mile to go,

  Ere we turn our horses’ heads round to make tracks for down below.

  There’s many a water-course to cross, and many a black-soil plain,

  And many a mile of mulga ridge ere we get back again.

  That time five moons shall wax and wane we’ll finish up the work,

  Have the bullocks o’er the border and truck ’em down from Bourke,

  And when they’re sold at Homebush, and the agents settle up,

  Sing hey! a spell in Sydney town and Melbourne for the ‘Cup’.

  Many factors contributed to the Cup becoming such an important event on the national sporting calendar. Among these were the intensity of intercolonial rivalry and the huge popularity of the magazine which published Paterson’s verse, the Bulletin.

  The Bulletin began its life in 1880 and celebrated all things Australian, although there was to be no ‘Australia’ until 1901. This magazine was almost single-handedly responsible for developing the great tradition of Australian rhymed verse that helped to define our national character. Under editor J.F. Archibald’s guidance the Bulletin developed a voice that has been described as ‘offensively Australian’ and helped to begin a slow process of change in our national perspective, from unquestioningly pro-British to more proudly ‘Australian’.

  The Cup, as has been noted earlier, is a distinctly Australian phenomenon. The fact that our greatest race is a handicap, as opposed to the classic British races which are true tests of quality, being weight-for-age events, demonstrates the difference in cultural sensibilities between the ‘old country’ and the nation which began its European history as a convict settlement.

  It is part of our culture to give everyone, and every horse, a ‘fair go’ and it perhaps accounts for the huge popularity of the Cup among all Australians, even those with no interest at all in the sport of racing.

  Paterson and Morant were horsemen and racing men who both rode in races and wrote many poems and stories about the sport, quite a few of which appear in this volume. The Cup, however, has captured the imagination of many poets and writers who were far less well-informed about the ‘sport of kings’ than were the well-known poets who were also great horsemen, like Paterson, Morant, Adam Lindsay Gordon and Will Ogilvie.

  Each year the Cup was celebrated in doggerel by anonymous balladists and in newspaper verses. Most notably C.J. Dennis managed to write witty, wonderful light verse about the Cup every year for the Melbourne Herald-Sun from the mid 1920s until his death in 1938. His efforts have their own story elsewhere in this collection.

  Most of these celebratory rhymes were written in haste, and in rather clunking couplets, by poets much less talented than C.J. Dennis. The details of the race and the praise of the winner were paramount, rather than the literary quality. One of the few verses of this type which has survived is one that celebrated Carbine’s famous Cup win, when he carried the biggest winning weight ever, 10 st 5 lb (66.5 kg), in 1890. Here is an extract:

  The race is run, the Cup is won, the great event is o’er.

  The grandest horse that strode a course has led them home once more.

  . . . With lightning speed, each gallant steed along the green track tore;

  Each jockey knew what he must do to finish in the fore.

  But Ramage knew his mount was true, though he had ten-five up,

  For Musket’s son great deeds had done before that Melbourne Cup . . .

  Brave horse and man who led the van on that November day!

  Your records will be history still when ye have passed away.

  There are many of these anonymous, second-rate verses celebrating Cup wins down the years, and more than a few about Phar Lap’s win in 1930. This is a snippet from one of the better ones:

  With a minimum of effort you would simply bowl along,

  With a stride so devastating and an action smooth and strong.

  And you vied with the immortals when, on Flemington’s green track,

  You won the Melbourne Cup with nine stone twelve upon your back.

  How the hearts of thousands quickened as you cantered back old chap,

  With your grand head proudly nodding to the crowd that yelled, ‘Phar Lap.’

  The poetry of the Cup

  One of the oddest poems ever written about the Cup is an
attempt by famous lyric poet, Henry Kendall, to capture the entire running of one particular Melbourne Cup in a style of poetry that seems oddly inappropriate for dramatic story-telling.

  This poem differs from most of the verses written about the Cup not only in its more lyrical style, but also because it is by a poet not known as a balladist, bush versifier or racing enthusiast.

  Most Cup verse takes the form of plain old doggerel, straight out story-telling, or, in the case of more sophisticated poets like Paterson, Morant and C.J. Dennis, well-informed humour or social commentary.

  In his attempt to capture the colour, mood and excitement of the Cup of 1881, Henry Kendall concentrates solely on the actual race. There is no attempt to capture the raceday atmosphere or the general excitement of the event, as Dennis often did. Kendall, instead, waxes lyrical over a horse that was unfancied by racegoers and started at 50 to 1. This horse, Zulu, had evidently been used as a cart horse for part of his life, according, once again, to Melbourne Cup mythology.

  Still, Zulu was no doubt a beautiful-looking creature. He was, by all accounts, a small well-formed horse and was certainly jet black, which no doubt accounts for his name. He was also, as Kendall mentions, a grandson of the great colonial sire Sir Hercules who sired Yattendon, The Barb and Zulu’s sire The Barbarian, a full brother to The Barb. The Barb won the Cup in 1866 and Yattendon sired Cup winners Chester and Grand Flaneur.

  The horses and jockeys mentioned by Kendall in this edited version of the poem are Somnus ridden by Cracknell, which finished 23rd; Santa Claus ridden by Bowes, which finished 30th; and Waterloo ridden by O’Brien, which finished 14th.

  Darebin, who had won the VRC Derby in world-record time just days previously, was ridden by Power and finished 18th. This colt was equal favourite with Waxy who finished 4th.

  The Czar ridden by Trahan and owned by Mr J. Morrison finished 2nd at 20 to 1, and ‘Ivory’s marvellous bay’ was Sweetmeat, ridden by P. Piggot and owned by Mr T. Ivory. He finished 3rd, having finished 2nd two years before.

  The ‘marvel that came from the North’ was AJC Derby winner, Wheatear, ridden by Ensworth, which fell when a dog ran amongst the horses at the half-mile post.

  A feature of the race which does not rate a mention in Kendall’s poem is the fact that Dodd, the jockey on Suwarrow, which also fell, died as a result of the fall. Burton rode The Wandering Jew into 16th place and the legendary Tom Hales was 17th on Trump Voss.

  Now that we have all the facts and prosaic items dealt with, let us enjoy the lyrical, poetic account of the 1881 Melbourne Cup from the pen of one of the greatest Australian poets, Henry Kendall.

  How the Melbourne Cup Was Won

  Henry Kendall

  In the beams of a beautiful day,

  Made soft by a breeze from the sea,

  The horses were started away,

  The fleet-footed thirty and three;

  Where beauty, with shining attire,

  Shed more than a noon on the land,

  Like spirits of thunder and fire

  They flashed by the fence and the stand.

  And the mouths of pale thousands were hushed

  When Somnus, a marvel of strength,

  Past Bowes like a sudden wind rushed,

  And led the bay colt by a length;

  But a chestnut came galloping through,

  And, down where the river-tide steals,

  O’Brien, on brave Waterloo,

  Dashed up to the big horse’s heels.

  But Cracknell still kept to the fore,

  And first by the water bend wheeled,

  When a cry from the stand, and a roar

  Ran over green furlongs of field;

  Far out by the back of the course—

  A demon of muscle and pluck—

  Flashed onward, the favourite horse,

  With his hoofs flaming clear of the ruck.

  But the marvel that came from the North,

  With another, was heavily thrown;

  And here at the turning flashed forth

  To the front a surprising unknown;

  By shed and by paddock and gate

  The strange, the magnificent black,

  Led Darebin a length in the straight,

  With thirty and one at his back.

  But the Derby colt tired at the rails,

  And Ivory’s marvellous bay

  Passed Burton, O’Brien, and Hales,

  As fleet as a flash of the day.

  But Gough on the African star

  Came clear in the front of the field,

  Hard followed by Morrison’s Czar

  And the blood unaccustomed to yield.

  Yes, first from the turn to the end,

  With a boy on him paler than ghost,

  The horse that had hardly a friend

  Shot flashing like fire by the post.

  In a clamour of calls and acclaim,

  He landed the money—the horse

  With the beautiful African name,

  That rang to the back of the course.

  Hurrah for the Hercules race,

  And the terror that came from his stall,

  With the bright, the intelligent face,

  To show the road home to them all!

  Regarded by many as Australia’s finest poet, Kendall was a very different type of poet to Paterson, Morant, and the rest of the Bulletin versifiers. He was also a very different type of person. He started his working life as a public servant with the Lands Office, but suffered family scandals, bankruptcy and bouts of mental illness. He resigned his position to live in poverty before working in a timber business owned by friends on the mid north coast of New South Wales, around the area of the town which now bears his name. His poetry was critically acclaimed but never made him any money. Towards the end of his life, the premier of New South Wales, Sir Henry Parkes, appointed him Inspector of Forests.

  Apart from his obviously well-researched 1881 poem, which demonstrates a good knowledge of the horses involved, Kendall does not appear to have had any deep or lasting interest in horse-racing, as did Paterson, Morant and Gordon. It also seems most unlikely, given the rather sad circumstances of his life, that he ever had any money to bet with.

  What we do know is that, as well as knowing an awful lot about trees, Kendall spent much of his working life in the saddle, so we can assume that he was a poet who knew something about horses and he obviously knew a bit about racing.

  It is hard to imagine a poet like Lesbia Harford knowing much about horses, however, let alone being a regular follower of racing.

  Born in Melbourne in 1891 she suffered from a congenital heart defect and later from tuberculosis. Neither ailment stopped her graduating in law in 1916 from Melbourne University (oddly enough, in the same class as Robert Menzies) at a time when women rarely achieved such things. Lesbia was a free thinker and radical, an active socialist, pacifist and champion of working women. She worked in factories and sweat shops and wrote excellent poetry without ever bothering to have any published. Her short but fascinating life ended when she succumbed to tuberculosis in 1927, aged 36.

  Lesbia Harford was certainly a wonderful poet, but hardly the type of person to study a form guide or be seen in a marquee during spring carnival social events.

  Nevertheless, she was Melbourne born and bred, and that was enough for her to take the time to write at least one poem about the Melbourne Cup.

  The Melbourne Cup

  Lesbia Harford

  I like the riders

  Clad in rose and blue;

  Their colours glitter

  And their horses too.

  Swift go the riders

  On incarnate speed.

  My thought can scarcely

  Follow where they lead.

  Delicate, strong, long

  Lines of colour flow,

  And all the people

  Tremble as they go.

  Bart: The King of Cups

  BRUCE MONTGOMERIE

  AUSTRALI
A ALMOST LOST LEGENDARY Melbourne Cup trainer Bart Cummings before he ever trained a horse.

  When he was 11, in 1939, Bart almost drowned while swimming off the jetty at Adelaide’s famous Glenelg Beach.

  He was going under for the third time when he was rescued by his 12-year-old schoolmate, Brendan O’Grady, the son of a local barber.

  Brendan received a commendation from the Royal Humane Society of Australasia for his heroic action. If it hadn’t been for his alertness and bravery, history would have been robbed of an iconic Aussie character—and arguably the greatest racehorse trainer this country has ever produced.

  James Bartholomew Cummings became known to us all as ‘Bart’ because he shared his father’s first name and the family used his middle name for convenience.

  ‘J.B.’ did it tough in his early days as a trainer and struggled to make a living for himself and his family. His perseverance, patience and uncanny knack of ‘knowing good horses when he saw them’ eventually made him a legend.

  There are three factors which made Bart the ‘Cups King’, with an unprecedented 12 Melbourne Cup wins over a period of 44 years.

  Firstly, there is his understanding of training for stamina. Secondly, his amazing knack of timing horses’ campaigns. Lastly, his dedication to the welfare of his horses.

  If you count Bart’s involvement as strapper of 1950 winner Comic Court, he has been involved in 13 Cup wins over a 60-year period. Now, that’s a feat that will surely never be repeated. And, he’s not finished . . .

  Bart Cummings came from hardy stock. His grandfather, Thomas Cummins, was a ploughman by profession. Born in 1828, Thomas migrated from Ireland to South Australia on the sailing ship Empanadas and arrived on Christmas Day 1853.