AN IRISH MARE
From Cork the wave came rolling across the Irish Sea
From Donegal to Wexford, Fermanagh and Tralee
It gathered pace in Dublin and set out on the tide
To bear the dreams of thousands, to carry Ireland’s pride.
And when she broke upon us, on England’s lofty shores
We did not man the ramparts, we spoke with one accord.
Full tilt we rallied round her, selecting not to shun
The legend that had gripped ‘em, the Emerald Isle’s Dawn Run
Transcending racing pages, she stepped into the breach
To tackle what had hitherto been tried but never reached
The essence of this riddle had until such time deceived
Since man evolved, the very best the winter game conceived.
For many a great hurdler had worn the Hurdling Crown
And Gold Cup Kings bestrode the stage set up in Cheltenham town
but none of those had taken both; the quest seemed sure to fail
Hopes were high that Irish luck might see the mare prevail
The finest steeds in Christendom would take her on this day
Those with speed, with class, with guts, those that stay and stay
Assembled for the gathering, Combs Ditch and Wayward Lad
The latter being acknowledged as the best Gold never had.
The Mare with Run ‘n’ Skip at bay, took on the Gold Cup field
Both pace setters by nature with the second forced to yield
Pursued by Yorkshire’s Champion, the stage looked surely set
For Dwyer to defend his crown, Forgive but don’t Forget
Unfurling without incident until the second last
The race seemed lost when Jonjo nailed his colours to the mast
O’Neil threw his steed a line, there’d be no quarter given
Dawn Run replied and found a gear as if by Satan driven
The last loomed large, one fence to go, Sir Peter sought a clue
The Lad looked strong, the Champ was beat, the Mare had it to do
But then she surged and surged again, they’d one hand on the Cup
When Racing’s Voice declared, ‘the Mare’s beginning to get up’
In sport there are great athletes who’ve triumphed without fame
Whose achievements aren’t reflected by the level of acclaim
Though Cheltenham crowds laud champions as part of their vocation
The scenes that day, with victory sure, trumped all known celebrations
The Irish were delirious, the English joined their ranks
Strangers hugged and hats were lost, Clergy danced with cranks
The wave that she’d created now exploded without shame
As undistilled elation placed the Mare beyond this game
A statue now bears witness to the feat Dawn Run achieved
Across her scene of triumph, everlasting gaze bequeathed.
Through spirit, skill and fortitude, she set the pulse apace
Her memory will be feted for as long as horses race
Call me Limey, call me Pom, call me what you will
but I was Paddy on the day that Dawn Run stormed the hill
Along with my compatriots, upon our hearts we forged
the shamrock and the Tricolour, apologies St. George.
©Henry Birtles