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man in a quiet way, Mr. Gratwicke, had the good fortune to fall back on.

PEDIGREE The Merry Monarch was bred by his present owner in 1842, and is by Slane, out of the Margravine by Little John; her dam by Phantom, out of sister to Election by Gohanna-Chesnut Skim by Woodpecker-Herod.

The Margravine is own sister to Frederick—another forty to one outsider—with whom Mr. Gratwicke won the Derby in 1829, Forth riding him, and running second with The Exquisite. The Margravine has been in the stud ten years, and thrown seven or eight foals, the winner of the last Derby, however, being the only one of any repute.

Slane is by Royal Oak, dam by Orville, out of Epsom Lass by Sir Peter, her dam Ålexina by King Fergus. He is also the sire of

Princess (winner of the Oaks last year), Murat, and many other winners, and one of the most fashionable stallions of the day.

For the following description we are indebted to the artist, Mr. Herring :-The Merry Monarch is a bright bay horse, sixteen hands high, with good lean head, very light neck, high in his withers (unusually so for a young horse), large ribs, deep brisket, oblique shoulders, good arms, and flat legs; turns his toes a little out; good open feet; straight back, tail well set on, long quarters, large thighs and gaskins, and clean hocks, which in walking he rather twists outwards. Should he keep well, he promises in another year to make one of the finest horses in the kingdom.

PERFORMANCES. In 1841 the Merry Monarch, then two years old, first appeared in the Ham Stakes at Goodwood, for which he was not placed, the Duke of Richmond's Refraction winning, Mr. Wreford's Winchelsea second, and Colonel Peel's Hersey third. Six others also

In 1845 The Merry Monarch, ridden by F. Bell, won the Derby Stakes at Epsom, of 50 sovs each, li.-ft. (138 subs.); beating Mr. A. Johnstone's Annandale (2), Mr. Gully's Old England (3), Mr. Mostyn's Pantasa (4), and twenty-seven others not placed--- the largest field ever set a going for the Derby. Value, clear of the stakes, £3,975.

The Merry Monarch is in the Gratwicke Stakes at Goodwood and the Doncaster St. Leger ; for the latter he now figures as first favourite at six to one-a liberal offer, at which, we must say, despite his one grand day's work, we should be very loath to get on.


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Come, now, my nobs—my sporting blades

Come here, and take a hand in
The fun that never flags nor fades,

Nor gulls the understanding.
Just mark! Simplicity's the word

That gave it all its fame :
One here-one there—and this the third-

Come, d-mme! make your game.
I'll take the odds, or even lay

With any real sporting gent,
To what amount he'd like to say,

On such a safe and sure event.
Aside.) Hie! Count, my boy, be just amoying ;

This work, as yet, is precious tame
A five, sir ? Thank’ee: that's improving-

We even now shall make a game.
No dodging here to bribe your rider,

No drug to get your fancy floor'd,
No chance cut out for queer outsider,

But every turn above the board.
If you'll but back your own opinion-

To tell the truth I feel no shame,
I'll lay a crown to half a h'inion

You very soon will make your game.
Now, then, sir, keep your eye upon it;

Once, twice I shift 'em-that'll do.
Pooh, pooh! you ass; that swell's a bonnet.

By George ! his honour's won it too!

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Well, never mind; here, take your browns, sir ;

To come the cutI never came:
No bolting here, but money down, sir-

That 'ere's the way I makes my game.
I'cod! that chap did rarely hook it!

is as well can be !
I know'd for "sartin," ere he took it,
That under hur he'd foind the

pea. I've railly half a moind to try it

What! sure as Jonathan's my name He's going again-he's won too by it :

Dang me! that beggar makes his game. Well, come as it will, I'll try my hand !

No, no, John; don't you touch them things!
Keep off, I say there ; d'ye think I'll stand

To go about in leading-strings?
Now mind, Will Somerton; let me be,

Or, if there's blows, you'll be to blame ;
Do just keep quiet, and soon you'll see

How beautifully I'll make my game. Lawks! only think, too, if I but won,

'Twould beat the harvest-work to sticks. Now, then, I will wager two pound-Done

And on that thimble, there, I fix. Holloa ! how's that? Why, your honour's wrong:

Next time you'll take a better aim.
“ Next time,” you rascal ! it's precious long

Before again I makes a game.
Come, gently, gently; don't you fret man,

It nat'ral is that some must lose;
But I must walk, that's if I yet can,

For don't you twig them horrid' “Blues." Our big-wig rulers, I'm much afeard,

For self and us can't feel the same; They are seldom over-nice, I've heard,

About the way they make their game.

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