Block · one region of the page, as the scanner read it. It may hold a whole story, part of one, several, or an advertisement; stitching blocks into articles is the next step. Text is supplied OCR.
Page 42 · column 1 of 6 · from the scan, no model involved
The day my final race is run And win or lose, the sinking sun Tells me it’s time to quit the track And gracefully hang up my tack. I'll thank the Lord the life Tve led Was always near a Thoroughbred. Tve had my share of falls and knocks Pursuing the elusive fox. Tve heard the stirring cry of hounds From Melton to the Sussex Downs. Each spring I ride a hundred miles (My tail bright red, my face all smiles.) Audi have seen the thrilling pace Of many a cutthroat steeplechase And watched with breath and mind suspended Until a classic race has ended, For those high days can end in pain, Or in a bottle of Champagne. So if the downward course is steep Where smoke and flames and devils leap, I’ll hope I’m on a Hellish steed Running his heart out —with no need For voice or spurs or flailing whip To guarantee he gets the trip. Rut if, about the sixteenth potk, God should have mercy dif my soul, / / hope He’ll raise me to the clouds Above the grandstand and the crowds And there I’ll take my ease, and wait Behind the pearly starting gute. And long before I break God’s « bread. , ,
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