The Horse
The horse, the brave.
The gallant Horse--
Fit theme for the minstrel's song!
He hath good claim
To praise and fame;
As the fleet, the kind, the strong.
Behold him free
In his native strength,
Looking fit for the sun-god's car;
With a skin as sleek
As a maiden's cheek,
And an eye like a Polar star.
Who wonders not
Such limbs can deign
To brook the fettering firth;
As we see him fly
The ringing plain,
And paw the crumbling earth?
His nostrils are wide
With snorting pride,
His fiery veins expand;
And yet he'll be led
With s silken thread,
Or soothed by and infant's hand.
He owns the lion's
Spirit and might,
But the voice he has learnt to love
Needs only be heard,
And he'll turn to the word,
As gentle as a dove.
The Arab is wise
Who learns to prize
His barb before all gold;
But us his barb
More fair than ours,
More generous, fast or bold?
A song for the steed,
The gallant steed--
Oh! grant him a leaf of bay;
For we owe much more
To his strength and speed,
Than man can ever repay.
Whatever his place--
The yoke, the chase,
The war-field, road, or course,
One of Creation's
Brightest and best
Is the Horse, the noble Horse!
Eliza Cook
The Wonderful Horse
I've a tale to relate.
Such a wonderful tale
That really I fear
My description must fail;
'Tis about a fine horse
Who had powers so amazing.
He lived without eating,
Or drinking, or grazing;
In fact this fine horse
Was so "awfully" clever.
That left to himself
He'd have lived on forever.
He stood in a room,
With his nose in the air,
And his wide staring eyes
Looking no one knows where.
His tail undisturbed
By the sting of a fly
One foot slightly raised
As if kicking he'd try,
This wonderful horse
Never slept or yet dozed,
At least if he did so,
His eyes never closed.
"Come, gee up, old Dobbin.
Look sharp, don't you see
I want to be there
And get back before tea?"
But this obstinate horse
Never offered to prance,
Or made an attempt
At the slightest advance;
Harry slashed him so hard.
That he slashed off one ear,
Then his mane tumbled off,
And poor Dobbin looked queer.
With spur, and with whip,
And with terrible blows,
He soon was deprived
Of one eye, and his nose,
While his slightly-raised foot
Found a place on the floor.
The tail once so handsome
Was handsome no more,
And Harry, the tears
Raining down as he stood,
Cried, "Bother the horse,
It is nothing but wood!"
The Pony
Oh, Brownie, our pony,
A gallant young steed,
Will carry us gaily
O'er hill, dale, and mead.
So sure is his foot,
And so steady his eye.
That even our baby
To mount him might try.
We haste to his stable
To see him each day,
And feed him with oats
And the sweetest of hay.
We pat his rough coat,
And we deck him with flowers,
Oh, never was seen
Such a pony as ours.
The Horse
No one deserves to have a horse
Who takes delight to beat him:
The wise will choose a better course,
And very kindly treat him.
If ever it should be my lot--
To have, for use or pleasure,
One who could safely walk or trot
The horse would be a treasure.
He soon would learn my voice to know
And I would gladly lead him;
And should he to the stable go,
I'd keep him clean and feed him.
I'd teach my horse a steady pace.
Because, if he should stumble
Upon a rough or stony place,
We might both have a tumble.
Should he grow aged, I would still
My poor old servant cherish;
I could not see him weak or ill,
And leave my horse to perish.
For should he get too weak to be
My servant any longer,
I'll send him out to grass quite free,
And get another stronger.
Good Dobbin
Oh! thank you, good Dobbin,
You've been a long track,
And have carried papa
All the way on your back;
You shall have some nice oats,
Faithful Dobbin, indeed,
For you've brought papa home
To his darling with speed.
The howling wind blew,
And the pelting rain beat,
And the thick mud has covered
His legs and his feet,
But yet on he galloped
In spite of the rain,
And has brought papa home,
To his darling again.
The sun it was setting
A long while ago,
And papa could not see
The road where he should go,
But Dobbin kept on
Through the desolate wild,
And has brought papa home
Again safe to his child.
Now go to the stable,
The night is so raw,
Go, Dobbin, and rest
Your old bones on the straw:
Don't stand any longer
Out here in the rain,
For you've brought papa home
To his darling again.
A Horse's Petition to his Master
Up the hill, whip me not;
Down the hill, hurry me not;
In the stable, forget me not;
Of hay and corn, rob me not;
With sponge and brush, neglect me not;
Of soft, dry bed, deprive me not;
If sick or cold, chill me not;
With bit and reins, oh! jerk me not;
And when you are angry, strike me not.
[Page 167--Gee Gee Land]
Work-Horses in a Park on Sunday
'Tis Sabbath-day, the poor man walks
Blithe from his cottage door,
And to his parting young ones talks
As they skip on before.
The father is a man of joy,
From his week's toil released;
And jocund is each little boy
To see his father pleased.
But, looking to a field at hand,
Where the grass grows rich and high,
A no less merry Sabbath band
Of horses met my eye.
Poor skinny beasts, that go all week
With loads of earth and stones,
Bearing, with aspect dull and meek,
Hard work, and cudgel'd bones.
But now let loose to roam athwart
The farmer's clover-lea
With whisking tails, and jump and snort,
They speak a clumsy glee.
Lolling across each other's necks,
Some look like brother's dear;
Other's are full of flings and kicks--
Antics uncouth and queer.
Superannuated Horse to His Master,
who has Sentenced him to Die
And hast thou sealed my doom, sweet master, say?
And wilt thou kill thy servant old and poor?
A little longer let me live, I pray;
A little longer hobble round the door.
For much it glads me to behold this place--
And house me in this hospitable shed;
It glads me more to see mu master's face,
And linger on the spot where I was bred.
For oh! to think of what we have enjoyed,
In my life's prime, e'er I was old and poor!
Then from the jocund morn to eve employed,
My gracious master on my back I bore.
Thrice ten years have danced on down along,
Since first to thee these way-born limbs I gave;
Sweet smiling years! When both of was were young--
The kindest master and the happiest slave.
Ah! years sweet smiling, now for ever flown,
Ten years, thrice fold, alas! are as a day.
Yet as together we are aged grown,
Together let us wear that age away.
And hast thou fixed my doom, sweet master, say?
And wilt thou kill thy servant old and poor?
A little longer let me live, I pray,
A little longer hobble round thy door.
But oh! Kind Nature, take thy victim's life!
And thou a servant feeble, old, and poor;
So shalt thou save me from the uplifted knife,
And gently stretch me at my master's door.
The Arab and His Horse
Come, my beauty; come, my dessert darling!
On my shoulder lay thy glossy head!
Fear not, though the barley sack be empty,
Here's half of Hassan's scanty bread.
Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty!
And thou knowest my water skin is free;
Drink and be welcome, for the wells are distant,
And my strength and safety lie in thee.
Bend thy forehead, now, to take my kisses!
Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye;
Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddle--
Thou art proud he owns thee; so am I.
Let the Sultan bring his broadest horses,
Prancing with their diamond-studded reins;
They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness,
When they course with thee the desert plains.
We have seen Damascus, O my beauty!
And the splendour of the pachas there;
What's their pomp and riches? Why, I would not
Take them for a handful of they hair.
The Cab Horse
Pity the sorrows of a poor cab horse,
Whose jaded limbs have many a mile to go.
Whose weary days are drawing to a close,
And but in death will he a rest e'er know.
When the cold winds of dreary winter rage,
And snow and hail come down in blinding sheet,
And people refuge see 'neath roof or arch,
The cab-horse stands unsheltered in the street.
Though worn and weary with useful life,
In patient service to his master--man;
No fair retirement waits his failing years,
He yet must do the utmost work he can.
His legs are stiff, his shoulders rubbed and sore,
His knees are broken and his sight is dim,
But no physician comes his wounds to heal,
The lash is all the cure that's given him.
Ye kindly hearts that spare the whip, and stroke,
Just now and then, with kindly hand, his mane;
Or pat his sides, or give a pleasant word,
Your tender-heartedness is not in vain.
He has not many friends to plead his cause;
He has not speech his own wrongs to outpour.
Pity the sorrows of a poor cab-horse;
Give him relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
[Page 168--Gee Gee Land]
Farmer John
Home from his journey Farmer John
Arrived this morning safe and sound,
His black coat off, and his old clothes on:
"Now I'm myself," says Farmer John.
And he thinks, "I'll look around!"
Up leaps the dog: "Get down, you pup,
Are you so glad you would eat me up?"
The old cow lows at the gate to greet him.
The horses prick up their ears, to meet him.
Well, well, old Bay!
Ha, ha, old Grey!
Do you get good food when I'm away?"
"You haven't a rib!" says Farmer John:
"The cattle are looking round and sleek;
The colt is going to be a roan,
And a beauty too, how he has grown!
We'll wean the calf, next week."
Says Farmer John, when I've been off,
To call you again about the trough,
And watch you, and pet you, while you drink,
Is a greater comfort than you can think."
And he pats old Bay,
And he slaps old Grey;
"Ah, this is the comfort of going away."
"For after all," says Farmer John,
"The best of the journey is getting home!
"I've seen great sights, but would I give
This spot, and the peaceful life I live,
For all their Paris and Rome?
These hills for the City's stifled air,
And big hotels, all bustle and glare,
Lands all horses, and roads all stones,
That deafen your ears and batter your bones,
Would you, old Bay?
Would you, old Grey?
That's what one gets by going away."
"I've found out this," says Farmer John,
"That happiness is not bought and sold
And clutched in a life of waste and hurry,
In nights of pleasure and days of worry,
And wealth isn't all in gold,
Mortgage and stocks, and ten per cent.,
But in simple ways of sweet content.
Few wants pure hopes, and noble ends,