"Tough Luck"

Whittier, a sixteen-to-one chance, won the Caulfield Cup. He had few backers, but a surprising number of punters said, after the race, that they “very nearly” backed the winner.

'Tis the voice of the punter:
    I hear him complain:
"Oh, the game is a dud,
    And there's little to gain;
I was just going up
    With a quid in my fist,
When the bookie shut down,
    And behold what I missed!"

'Tis the voice of the punter:
    I hear his loud wail:
"I said in the morning
    That nag couldn't fail.
I was ready to plunge
    On that horse like a toff,
When a chap in the know
    Went and put me right off."

'Tis the voice of the punter,
    Just one of the "click":
"Aw, a man's luck fair 'ums
    This 'ere 'orse was my pick;
I was puttin' me shirt
    On this Whittler moke,
When a cow picks me pocket,
    An' leaves me stone broke."

'Tis the voice of the punter,
    An erudite man,
Who cried, "Talk of omens!
    Beat this if you can!
I espied a green leaf,
    As I walked on the course.
Greenleaf Whittier! What?
    But I backed the third horse."

'Tis the voice of the punter—
    The same sorry tale—
The same old excuses
    When favourites fail:
"I'd thought of that dream—"
    "I'd the pound in me hand"—
But the laugh of the bookie
    Is loud in the land.