PUNCHESTOWN IN 1863
Leinster Leader 3 May 1913
PUNCHESTOWN IN 1863
Before the incidents of the recent successful racing carnival at Punchestown have faded away into memories of the remote past, we feel sure that the following lines written on the famous meeting in 1863 will be read with an interest by many of our readers calling up as they do recollections of manes and personages in the world of sport in years gone by. The manuscript has been kindly lent to the “Leader” by an old reader, and as we believe few if any other copies of the manuscript exist, its reproduction in our columns, will be all the more acceptable: –
A loud hurrah for Ireland boys,
And a louder for Kildare,
And the loudest of all for Punchestown,
For I know you all were there.
Full many a year, both wet and dry.
We have climbed that stand of yore,
But such a meeting as Sixty-three,
Has never been seen before.
It was a merry April day,
And the sun shone bright and fair,
On the blue and distant Wicklow hills,
And the plains of our own Kildare.
‘Tis a glorious view that meets the eye,
From our own familiar course,
And green are the meadows of Punchestown,
And golden is far-famed gorse.
Ah! many a day in that far-famed gorse,
Our gallant fox we’ve found.
And seen him break for Eadstown straight,
As a Punchestown fox is bound.
But another sight now greets our eyes
For the flags are streaming free,
And the booths shine white, and the laden cars
Come jingling merrily.
Upon the Naas and Dublin roads
You scarce can pass along,
And Newbridge and the Camp have done
Their part to swell the throng.
And everything that rolls on wheels
Are crowding to the front.
For this is Ireland’s Derby Day,
The glory of the Hunt.
And where, but at Punchestown, could you find
A scene so glad and gay.
Or toilettes so fresh or eyes so bright,
As are filling that stand to-day?
From South to West, and even from North,
They come, a jovial crew.
And many an M.F.H. is there,
And many a sportsman true.
From where bold Watson winds his horn
Among Collattin’s hills.
From where Sam Reynell’s cheery voice
O’er Meath’s broad pastures thrills.
From brave Kilkenny’s spreading woods
From the wave-washed rocks of Clare,
From where Tipperary’s mountains look
O’er valleys rich and fair.
From Wexford’s plains, from fertile Cork,
From the Shannon’s smiling shore,
From where against wild Galway’s cliffs
The Atlantic surges roar.
From the fields of Louth, from Westmeath’s lakes,
From where Suir’s bright waters run,
From the wide Heath that sportsmen love
They are coming to see the fun.
And Dublin sends its flower and pride,
For the Viceroy’s staff are here,
And many a linesman, and bold dragoon
And many a bombardier.
And the county’s there, both high and low,
Around us and above,
Is every name we know full well
And every face we love.
There are Bourkes, Moores and Kennedy’s
Rynds, Henrys, and Mansfields three
And Bernard, and Tuthill, and Warburton
And Beresford, A.D.C.
And he whom spite of maps we claim,
The Lord of Ballymure
That friend in need in the hunting field,
Our own good Richard Moore.
Dear Old Wakefield who leads the win
Of the riders from Kildare
And both the Tynths – what were our hunt
Without that sporting pair.
From the high roofs of Gowran Grange
From Lyons’ lordly bowers
From Castletown and Killashee,
From Leixlip’s moss-grown towers.
From hospitable Palmerstown,
From Russborough’s ancient hall,
From Straffan’s green and peaceful shades
They are coming one and all.
Here the member for Punchestown,
Tom Connolly canters by,
There beneath his new white hat
“Charlie Hoffman winks his eye.”
Many an English guest is here
M.P.’s and sporting squires;
Many a name of high renown
From the famous English Shires.
I could tell of more, but the time is short,
And I hear the saddling bell,
And frantic stewards rush to and fro
In the pink we love so well.
Here are the kindly voice and smile
Of our own good Lord of Naas;
And by his side our Member shows
His jovial form and face.
Charley Roberts of Sallymount
Aylmer of Donadea
And Edward Mansfield, the Hunt’s right hand
A right good fellow he.
And here is our Baron, whose labour of love
Has with such success been crowned –
We will greet him well by the cover side
When November’s joys come round.
And he is here, who works so hard
For our county’s and races’ name;
Without him, Punchetown would be
Still all unknown to fame.
But one we miss: – Oh cruel Fate
That causes this complaint!
He leaves a blank no one else can fill –
Where is our little saint?
But see! they’re started – and nine are off
For the Punchestown Plate to run.
But black and silver shows first in front,
And Ladybird has won.
Next comes a match – but for all the heed
That we take of it here to-day,
The horses and their riders too
Might as well have staid away
And now the National – Twenty-eight
In the starting field find place;
But ere the ground is half gone o’er
But seven is in the race
The seven now are reduced to two,
The struggle is theirs alone –
One rush, brave Kino! ‘Tis in vain,
And Lightheart’s numbers shown.
The Hunt Plate’s next – and for it I see
There are ten at the post to-day,
But the little jockey who rides Blush Rose
Has carried the prize away.
The Soldier’s Race! and we all must wish
Success to that good brown horse,
Whom the same bold rider steered last year
O’er the same victorious course.
The flag is dropped – seven start – and soon
Bold Barclay leads the way.
Sir William never is caught again
And the tartan has won the day.
Hurrah for the good brown horse! and joy
To his gallant owner here,
A sportsman true, and to all Kildare
A friend most loved and dear.
Here’s the last race upon the card –
There are seven numbers up;
Who will win this fair and goodly prize,
Our own renowned Hunt Cup.
Six strive and strain and spur in vain,
They are beaten every one,
And valiant Thomas upon Fusee,
In a common canter’s won.
We will not grudge it altho’ it falls
To a distant county’s share,
For a better fellow than Joseph Tuite
Never rode across Kildare.
To-morrow comes – the sun looks forth
On Punchestown’s second day.
And again the crowds are filling the stand,
And all is bright and gay.
The Naas Plate’s first upon the card,
And nine come forth to run;
Now who’s the favourite ‘gainst the field?
Oh who but Oberon
Right fit he looks, the good old horse;
And who his thoughts shall tell,
As the takes the lead and clears each fence,
On the course he knows so well.
He’s never headed – and all the crowd
Rejoice that he’s won the race,
For no colours our county holds more dear
Than the black with the silver lace.
The great event of the day is next –
For generous Downshire’s hand
Has given for prize that goodly Cup
That graces the Steward’s hands.
Oh would that himself were here to see!
There are twelve gone down to start;
And to win the Cup is the dearest wish
Of every owner’s heart
Hurrah, brave Lightheart! well done good horse!
In triumph he rushes by
And the brave Tipperary boys bear off
Their second victory
But my tale is long and the time is short,
I cannot stay to tell
How Paley won the Garrison Plate
On the black we know so well.
How the Farmer’s Race had fall’n
To the Duke of Magenta’s lot.
How Melody won the Welter Stakes,
And Scramble Forget-me-not.
Punchestowns o’er! and when any here
Look back on the sports again
May they find in them a pleasant thought
And never a sting of pain.
And when the merry April days
Bring back this time of glee,
With its joyous crowds of high and low
May we all be there to see.
Farewell, kind friends who come from far!
If you’ll all return next year,
You shall find the best of all good sport
And an Irish welcome here.
And for ourselves – we part – but soon
Will those joys again begin
When we see our Baron among his pack
In the front of Johnstown Inn.
And all our country, rich and poor
Is there, and old and young
Each one with friendship within his heart,
And kindness upon his tongue.
Then here’s a health to Ireland boys
And a health to our own Kildare,
And the last and loudest to Punchestown,
And our next merry meeting there.
