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 46 · column 4 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, HI thank the Lord the life I’ve led Was always near a Thoroughbred. I’ve had my share of falls and knocks Pursuing the elusive fox. I’ve 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.) And I 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 lb guarantee he gets the trip. But if, about the sixteenth pole, God should have mercy on my soul, I hope He’ll raise me to the clouds Above the grandstand and the crowds And there 111 take my ease, and wait Behind the pearly starting gate. And long before I break God’s bread Or buy a halo for my head Or sink in toa. starry bed | Or. say. the- prayers, I should
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