HARRY
Last week an elder statesman chose to leave the line, depart the fray
He called his dog and broke his gun and heading for the setting sun
Just shuffled off and he was gone; no fanfare, lights or grand Swansong
He chose his time and time moved on.
With dusk now cloaking Helmsley’s moors, he took a somewhat lengthy pause
To contemplate a ghastly thought, a Heaven packed with frightful bores
For all here gathered on this day to wave dear Harry on his way
Are hoping on the other side he finds a damn good place to hide
A room that tiresome types won’t know, a place where he can quietly go
With Ziggy circling, settling down, the 3.15 from Leopardstown
A Racing Post, remote control, and Eich outside on bore patrol
Whilst this might speak of latter traits, there’s so much more to recognise
For Harry’s life was full of fun, of mischief, charm…of compromise
From years in rare Society to late-in-life sobriety, he never lost what made him…him
Despite his fight with Gordon’s Gin, he soldiered on, he toughed it out
In Wiltons…Langoustine or trout; but what he really focused on
Beyond his family and AA, was Helmsley where he brightly shone
A Left and Right, the old Black Swan, the pheasant, grouse, the kale, the moor
The madding crowd, the ghastly bore were miles from here
In Yorkshire, Harry’s name’s revered; they held him close, they hold him dear
And though one thought all lines were drawn, he found a love of endless worth
From younger days, a love reborn, the golden glory of the Turf
Where once he raced with breeches on, now stick in hand he gently moved
Amongst Prince Khaled’s closest crowd; he stood and watched as history bowed to Frankel
Who is widely seen the greatest horse there’s ever been
Now Harry’s passed his winning post; to Father, son and Holy Ghost
Make sure he has what he likes best, from all of us, it’s our request
Last week an elder statesman chose to leave the line, depart the fray
He called his dog and broke his gun; he beat Mandela by a day
©Henry Birtles