Credat Judaeus Apella Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: ABABCDCDAEAE FGFGAHAE AIAIAEAE BJBJBKBKBBBBAEAE LMLNOENE LPLPLQLQ PRPRSITI| Dear Bell I enclose what you ask in a letter | A |
| A short rhyme at random no more and no less | B |
| And you may insert it for want of a better | A |
| Or leave it it doesn't much matter I guess | B |
| And as for a tip why there isn't much in it | C |
| I may hit the right nail but first I declare | D |
| I haven't a notion what's going to win it | C |
| The Champion I mean and what's more I don't care | D |
| Imprimis there's Cowra few nags can go quicker | A |
| Than she can and Smith takes his oath she can fly | E |
| While Brown Jones and Robinson swear she's a sticker | A |
| But credat Judaeus Apella say I | E |
| - | |
| There's old Volunteer I'd be sorry to sneer | F |
| At his chance he'll be there if he goes at the rate | G |
| He went at last year when a customer queer | F |
| Johnny Higgerson fancied him lock'd in the straight | G |
| I've heard that the old horse has never been fitter | A |
| I've heard all performances past he'll outvie | H |
| He may gallop a docker and finish a splitter | A |
| But credat Judaeus Apella say I | E |
| - | |
| I know what they say sir The Hook he can stay sir | A |
| And stick to his work like a sleuth hound or beagle | I |
| He stays with a hook and he sticks in the clay sir | A |
| I'd rather for choice pop my money on Seagull | I |
| I'm told that the Sydney division will rue sir | A |
| Their rashness in front of the stand when they spy | E |
| With a clear lead the white jacket spotted with blue sir | A |
| But credat Judaeus Apella say I | E |
| - | |
| There's The Barb you may talk of your flyers and stayers | B |
| All bosh when he strips you can see his eye range | J |
| Round his rivals with much the same look as Tom Sayers | B |
| Once wore when he faced the big novice Bill Bainge | J |
| Like Stow at our hustings confronting the hisses | B |
| Of roughs with his queer Mephistopheles' smile | K |
| Like Baker or Baker's more wonderful Mrs | B |
| The terror of blacks at the source of the Nile | K |
| Like Triton 'mid minnows like hawk among chickens | B |
| Like anything better than everything else | B |
| He stands at the post Now they're off the plot thickens | B |
| Quoth Stanley to Davis How is your pulse | B |
| He skims o'er the smooth turf he scuds through the mire | A |
| He waits with them passes them bids them good bye | E |
| Two miles and three quarters cries Filgate He'll tire | A |
| Oh credat Judaeus Apella say I | E |
| - | |
| Lest my tale should come true let me give you fair warning | L |
| You may shout some cheroots if you like no champagne | M |
| For this child Oh think of my head in the morning | L |
| Old chap you don't get me on that lay again | N |
| The last time those games I look'd likely to try on | O |
| Says Bradshawe You'll feel very sheepish and shy | E |
| When you are haul'd up and caution'd by D g y and L n | N |
| Oh credat Judaeus Apella say I | E |
| - | |
| This writing bad verses is very fatiguing | L |
| The brain and the liver against it combine | P |
| And nerves with digestion in concert are leaguing | L |
| To punish excess in the pen and ink line | P |
| Already I feel just as if I'd been rowing | L |
| Hard all on a supper of onions and tripe | Q |
| A thing I abhor but my steam I've done blowing | L |
| I am my dear bell yours truly The Pipe | Q |
| - | |
| P S Tell J P if he fancies a good 'un | P |
| That old chestnut pony of mine is for sale | R |
| N B His forelegs are uncommonly wooden | P |
| I fancy the near one's beginning to fail | R |
| And why shouldn't I do as W n does oft | S |
| And swear that a cripple is sound on the Bible | I |
| Hold hard though the man I allude to is soft | T |
| He's game to go in for an action of libel | I |
Adam Lindsay Gordon
(1)
Poem topics: , Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
Submit Spanish Translation
Submit German Translation
Submit French Translation
Write your comment about Credat Judaeus Apella poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
Best Poems of Adam Lindsay Gordon