While most of us are fast asleep
As the moon begins its fall,
And drifts it's gentle light
Across the clock upon the wall;
There's others who have left their beds
There's hoofbeats in the dawn,
And out upon the training track
The music of the morn.

The frost lays thick upon the ground
And shines upon the roofs,
And all around, the lovely sound
A thousand steel shod hoofs,
A scraping here, a snorting there
A jockey's curse, a whinny;
A trainer feeling tender legs
"Damn, that colt's gone shinny."

And out in pairs they come and go
"800 please, at evens,
"Hey Jack, have you got one to go?
"The two-year old of Stevens?"
Then stately past, with entourage,
The champion slowly prances,
No envy here, just horsemen's pride
And true admiring glances.

The flaring nostrils show soft red,
A roll, hose, scrape and lead,
The rug thrown on, and off back home
To munch the morning feed
And as they leave, some more come in
While the sun turns red at dawn
To the clatter of a thousand hoofs,
The music of the morn.

So when I die I hope that I
Can chat with old Saint Peter,
And that dear chap would understand
That nothing could be sweeter
For me, to go where the horses run
Down a track that's long and worn,
To hear once more, the glorious sound;
The music of the morn.