NEWMARKET
The Merry Monarch called a tune which soon became a masterpiece
And anthems sprung and songs were sung of heroes, villains, victories won
Of heartbreak, scandal, fortunes lost…and deals done
Of blessed hooves on blessed turf; where thunder isn’t thunder
But a symphony on earth
And here on Suffolk’s vast expanse lies Newmarket, The Citadel; this chosen site
Where back in 1666 our glorious sport took wing, and shone a light for Horse and Man
Yes, this is where it all began
From matches out on Racecourse Side, the message spread like rampant fire
And fuelled a primal urge to race; this somewhat unassuming place had launched a trend
A sport, a way of life; a neverend that feeds the dreams of dreamers still
And reaps the souls of those who thrive
On noble elegance and power; The Game, the thrill
Who make their way in hopeful Spring to Headquarters for Guineas week
To once again find comfort in familiar sights, familiar speak
The Rowley Mile, The Bushes and The Dip, The Rising Ground
The Brigadier, the wall of sound, the yesteryear
As diehards make comparisons with greats of yore
New Champions will stake their claims to join that pantheon of names
And we will pause to breathe it in, to feel its pulse once more
©Henry Birtles