| lyric | 1. It happend in the Spring time in the year of sixty four,
when Englishmen were making pounds and fivers by ths core
He beat them o’er the hollows, he beat them o’er the jumps
A fancy pair of fetlocks, well, he showed them all at one.
2. He's English, he‘s English, as easy might be seen,
With a little bit of Arab stock, but more from Stephen's Green.
Ah, take a look at Millhouse, put out your chest with pride,
He's the greatest steeplechaser on the English countryside.
3. Then a quiet man called Draper, living in the Emerald Isle,
Says, ""This horse of yours called Millhouse, sure he shows a bit of style.
But I've a little fellow and Arkle is his name,
Put your money where you put your mouth and then we'll play the game.""
4. Now the English racing gentlemen, they laughed till fit to burst,
Saying, ""You tried before, Tom Draper, and then you came off worst.
If you think your horse can beat us, you're running short in brains,
It's Millhouse that we're speaking of, and not those beastly Danes.""
5. Arkle now is five to two, Millhouse is money—on.
They're off and, dear, I do believe the champion has it won.
There are other horses in the race to test the great chap‘s might,
But. (Icaric me, it's plain to see that the rest are out of sight.
6. There are two more fences now to go, he leads by twenty lengths.
Brave Arkle's putting in a show, poor chap he's all but spent.
Millhouse strides on majestically, great glory in his stride,
The greatest horse undoubtedly within the whole world wide.
7. Two to go, still Arkle comes, he's cutting down the lead.
But he's beaten bar the shouting for he hasn't got the speed.
From the run up to the last, my God can he hold out,
Look behind you Willie Robinson, and what are you about?
8. They're at the last and over, Pat Taffe has more in hand.
He's passing England's Millhouse, the finest in the land.
My God, he has us beaten, what can we English say?
The ground was wrong, the distance long, too early in the day.
9. So come all you gallant Irishmen , wherever you may be,
And let the glasses toast a round to Arkle's victory.
When the English think they've bred a horse to wipe out this disgrace,
Sure we'll send another over for to take great Arkle's place. |