ON SUNDAY MORNING

On Sunday Morning when the church bells chimed,
And lads slept in, and laid till nine,
The horses waited, while old Mike Ashley,
Brought their feed, and cursed quite rashly,

Because his beloved Wales were beat the night before,
At Twickenham, by the English, with blood and gore,
‘Oh the pain’ and soon they would come,
And pull his leg, all morning, till work was done,

The horses waited as that well known sound,
Of opening bolts and Mike’s feet came around,
Growing nearer, ever nearer, soon to be their turn,
They hollered and stamped, while their stomachs burned,

Each horse was his friend, all of their habits and tricks,
He knew as he checked legs and salt licks,
Old Bold King, great cups had he won,
Waited patiently for old Mike and the sight of the Sun,

Every morning he came and while greeting his flock,
Of good colts, young ones and all kind of stock,
He felt he held a candle for one or two,
And it’s why he got up each day, between me and you,

Because some days it rained and the yard was cold,
Frozen buckets and cold bolts, reins too wet to hold,
With the wind in your face, like needles on cheeks,
Cold, wet and windy, it could go on for weeks,

But then horses would come, with races in sight,
With the work, the feeding, the care and the right,
To dream of a day when a great victory might fall,
For the lad and his guvnor and their charge in his stall,

Then Tony Darby opened the gate at Row Down,
Where twelve horses languished and brought a frown,
As one had a nose, a leg and a splutter,
And ten months had gone by since he last had a flutter,

Old Tony as lame as a bike with square wheels,
Who dreamt of a cottage in green Irish hills,
His face was a picture of hard life and weather,
All creased and intent with the look of leather,

But a kind heart he had as he tended his team,
Felt legs and straightened rugs, made sure mangers were clean,
Landucci was a favourite, and made a good ride,
Won quite a few races and filled Tony with pride,

Scouse made a lynch pin, been there since the start,
A bandit on the pool table and good with a dart,
He had handled good horses and knew there worth,
And we all made fun of his middle aged girth,

Then Howard from Wales, in black he was dressed,
With Coup De Feu, Roland Gardens and Docksider was he blessed,
Then Dave Cochrane with luck on his side always there,
Old ‘Derby Dave’ did Broadway Flyer and Dibidale, a great mare,

Bod was a one off, we’d known it for years,
He’d come out with some comments that’d bring you to tears,
And Laurie, the one with the driest of wit,
But never made mistakes when things came down to it,

Then Fiona and the girls, they’d go out with the ponies,
So everyone had to make a move and poor old Tony,
Had to find out where the box had gone and quick,
Or it would be the Guvnor’s problem next, which would go down like a brick.

The girls have started riding, they like Ledgerwood,
He’s a laid back sort, but not very good,
Jessy’s quite keen, loves her riding and art,
Martha’s got to keep up and has made a good start,

Then Livi, who could make a career in persuasion,
She’d charm and talk turkey till it went out of fashion,
But Issy is sweet and quite atheletic too,
They all think she’s easy, if only they knew,

Colin does the board every morning first thing,
He gets stick from everyone this man from Dublin,
Assistants work hard and often take the flak,
From above and below, but he’s got the Knack,

Of dealing with the team, the owners and the boss,
For precious little thanks, and a fair bit of hair loss,
Then Jeanette who they fear, but looks after them all,
Makes an anchor like rock, let’s the tree stand tall,

Then Kevin in his spot, behind the cluttered desk,
All organised by 9 O’Clock he really is the best,
They all know him, from Weatherby’s to Michael Stoutes,
At Gosden’s, Bell’s or Channons’s, their runners he’ll find out,

So on to Mick Day, that great manager of Estates,
A mine of knowledge, gossip, and one of our mates,
He’s found a thing or two that have come in quite handy,
For the place, over the years, and he doesn’t drink shandy,

When the weekend comes, because that is his right,
To distance himself from work, even get a bit tight,
And on to the men who make it all go,
The owners, the dreamers who we all know,

Support the team through good times and bad,
Feel both ups and downs, both happy and sad,
When horses dig deep, run faster and prevail,
When horses dig deeper, and sometimes fail,

The owner, he could have spent his time sailing,
On warm seas, with drinks and his hand on white railings,
Instead he chose a more noble path,
Which takes him to Ascot, and sometimes to Bath,

Which brings us back round to the subject in question,
Of horses, men, wealth, determination,
A breed of people who feel life hope and joy,
And believe in things they felt when they were boys,

And the team they work, joke and laugh every day,
They feel disappointment, elation and have their say,
As the horses rise and fall, as they win or they lose,
Each day they come in and do the job that they choose.