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And never will they, maybe,
See a flaxen-headed baby
Flog racehorse to the winning-post with all his tiny might.
But Gaylad’s strength is waning—
Gone, in fact, beyond regaining:
Poor Babs is flogging hopelessly, as pale as any ghost:
But he looks so brave and pretty
That the Rose’s jock takes pity,
And, pulling back a trifle, lets the baby pass the post.
