Written for my grandfather. I read this at his funeral. The accent portrayed is Lancashire, Donny refers to the Doncaster racecourse.

The Horses Run

‘E wasn’t happy - the day the meet at Donny got called off,

A winner in the 3.15 that wouldn’t now run.

The paper laid open, red circles round ‘orses’ names

And odds to win scrawled down the side,

His winner sat there, a frustrating nine-to-one.

----

When three days later by four lengths it won

And ‘e’d not made it t’ert bookies in time,

‘E didn’t sit there and curse ‘is luck,

But laughed, and drank ‘is pint o’mild,

‘Is flat cap still welded to ‘is ‘ead.

“T’horse’ll run again,” ‘e said,

And it did, though th’odds next time were short

But ‘e still smiled, even now he smiles

With a pint in ‘is ‘and an’ ‘is cap on ‘is ‘ead,

Leaving me with a thousand words I never said

Sat here, listening, as the horses race

With his winner long gone, lost in a chase

But he’d bet each way, he knew his stuff

Like he knew me and what I’d want to say, just

Now he’s not here to place his bet.

So I’ll place it for him at the bookies instead,

And drink that last pint, like he said,

Remember the laugh and the old flat cap,

The pints in the pub and the chair where he sat,

Studying the form in the evening rag.

Somethings stay with you, long after they’re gone,

As the sound of horse hooves beat away,

I can see him, stood up with his mild at the bar,

As the sound of horse hooves beat away,

Stood in his flat cap, working out the odds,

As the sound of horses hooves beat away.

Picking a winner, one last time,

To the sound of horse hooves beating away.

As the sound of horse hooves beat away.