Cole's Funny Picture Book No. 1
Some land to till and a few good friends,
Like you, old Bay,
And you, old Grey,
That's what I've learned by going away.
And a happy man is Farmer John,
Oh! a rich and happy man is he;
He sees the peas and pumpkins growing,
The corn in tassel, and buckwheat blowing;
And fruit on vine and tree.
The large kind oxen look their thanks,
As he rubs their foreheads and strokes their flanks,
The doves light round him, and strut and coo;
Says Farmer John: "I'll take you too,
And you, old Bay,
And you, old Grey,
The next time I travel so far away."
The Horse
A horse, long us'd to bit and bridle,
But always much disposed to idle,
Had often wished that he was able
To steal unnotic'd from the stable.
He panted from his utmost soul,
To be at nobody's control;
Go his own pace, slower or faster.
In short, do nothing--like his master.
But yet he ne'er had got at large,
If Jack (who had him in his charge)
Had not, as many have before,
Forgot to shut the stable door.
Dobbin, with expectation swelling,
Now rose to quit he present dwelling,
But first peep'd out with cautious fear,
T' examine if the coast was clear.
At length he ventured from his station,
And with extreme self-approbation,
As if delivered from a load,
He gallop'd to the public road.
And here he stood awhile debating,
(Till he was almost tired of waiting)
Which way he'd please to bend his course,
Now there was nobody to force.
At last, unchecked by bit or rein,
He saunter'd down a pleasant lane,
And neigh'd forth many a jocund song
In triumph, as he pass'd along.
But when dark nights began t'appear,
In vain he sought some shelter near,
And well he knew he could not bear
To sleep out in the open air.
The grass felt damp and raw,
Much colder than his master's straw,
Yet on it he was forc'd to stretch,
A poor, cold, melancholy wretch.
The night was dark, the country hilly,
Poor Dobbin felt extremely chilly;
Perhaps a feeling like remorse
Just now might sting this truant horse.
As soon as day began to dawn,
Dobbin, with long and weary yawn,
Arose from this his sleepless night,
But in low spirits and bad plight.
"If this" (thought he) "is all I get,
A bed unwholesome, cold and wet,
And thus forlorn about to roam,
I think I'd better be at home."
'Twas long ere Dobbin could decide
Betwixt his wishes and his pride,
Whether to live in all this danger,
Or go back sneaking to the manger.
At last his struggling pride gave way,
To thought of savoury oats and hay
To hungry stomach, was a reason
Unanswerable at this season.
So off he set, with look profound,
Right glad that he was homeward bound;
And, trotting fast as he was able,
Soon gain'd once more his master's stable.
Now Dobbin, after his disaster,
Never again forsook his master,
Convinc'd he'd better let him mount.
Than travel on his own account.
Jane Taylor
[Page 169--Donkey Land]
The Cottager's Donkey
No wonder the Cottager
Looks with Pride
On the well-fed donkey
That stands at his side;
For he works, and he lives
As hard as he,
And a creature more useful
There cannot be.
He knows the Cottager's
Wife and child,
And he loves to play
With that dog so wild;
And though sometimes
So staid and still,
He can roll in the meadow
With right good will.
He knows the road
To the market well,
Where garden vegetables
He goes to sell:
And though it is hilly,
And far, and rough,
He thinks--for a donkey,
It's well enough.
So he trudges along,
And little he cares
How hard he works,
Or how ill he fares!
Content when his home
Appears in sight,
If his kindly master
Smiles at night.
S. V. Dodds
The Donkey
Poor Donkey! I'll give him
A handful of grass;
I'm sure he's an honest,
Though stupid, old ass.
He trots to the market
To carry the sack,
And lets me ride all the
Way home on his back;
And only just stops
By the ditch for a minute,
To see if there's any
Fresh grass for him in it.
'Tis true, now and then
He has got a bad trick
Of standing stock-still,
And just trying to kick:
But then, poor old fellow!
You know he can't tell
That standing stock-still
Is not using me well;
For it never comes into
His head, I dare say,
To do his work first,
And then afterwards play.
No, no, my good donkey!
I'll give you some grass,
For you know no better,
Because you're an ass;
But what little donkeys
Some children must look,
Who stand, very like you,
Stock-still at their book,
And waste every moment
Of time as it passes--
A great deal more stupid
And silly than asses!
The Ride
Up and down on Neddy's back,
Taking turns they go,
Part the time with trot so fast,
Part with pace so slow.
Little sisters side by side,
Sharing each the fun and ride.
Neddy thinks, "it can't hurt me,
But gives the children fun, you see."
And so he lends himself that they
May happy be this pleasant day.
Old Jack, the Donkey
Old Jack was as sleek
And well looking an ass
As ever on common
Munched thistle or grass;
And--though 'twas not gaudy,
That jacket of brown--
Was the pet of the young
And the pride of the town.
And indeed he might well
Look so comely and trim,
When his young master, Joe,
Was so gentle to him;
For never did child
More affection beget
Than was felt by young Joe
For his four-footed pet.
Joe groomed him and fed him,
And, each market day,
Would talk to his darling
The whole of the way;
And Jack before dawn
Would be pushing the door,
As though he would say,
"Up Joe; slumber no more."
One day Jack was wandering
Along the roadside,
When an urchin the donkey
Maliciously eyed;
And aiming too surely
At Jack a sharp stone,
It struck the poor beast
Just below the shin bone.
Joe soothed and caressed him
And coaxed him until
They came to a stream
By the side of the hill;
And with cool water
He washed the swoll'n limb,
And after this fashion
Kept talking to him:--
"Poor Jack did they pelt him--
The cowards, so sly!
I wish I'd been there,
With my stick, standing by:
It doesn't bleed now--
'Twill be well in a trice;
There, let me just wash it--
Now isn't that nice?"
And Jack nestled down
With his soft velvet nose,
And close as he could,
Under Joe's ragged clothes;
And he looked at his master,
As though he would say--
"I'm sure I can never
Your kindness repay."
S. W. P.
The Donkey's Song
"Please, Mr Donkey, Sing a song,"
A black-bird said, one day.
The don-key o-pened wide his mouth,
The black-bird flew a-way.
The Ass
The Ass, when treated well by man,
To pleas him will do all he can;
But if his master uses him ill,
He will not work, but stand stock-still,
To market he will carry peas,
And coals, or any thing you please;
He is not over-nice with meat,
For thorns and thistles he will eat.
He drinks no water but what's clean;
His nose he puts not in the stream;
His feet he does not like to wet,
But out of dirty roads will get.
Poor Donkey's Epitaph
Down in this ditch poor donkey lies,
Who jogg'd with many a load;
And till the day death clos'd his eyes,
Brows'd up and down this road.
No shelter had he for his head,
Whatever winds might blow;
A neighb'ring commons was his bed,
Tho' drest in sheets of snow.
In this green ditch he often stray'd
To nip the dainty grass;
And friendly invitations bray'd
To some more hungry ass.
Each market-day he jogg'd along
Beneath the gard'ner's load,
And snor'd out many a donkey's song
To friends upon the road.
A tuft of grass, a thistle green,
Or cabbage-leaf so sweet,
Were all the dainties, he was seen
For twenty years to eat.
And as for sport, the sober soul
Was such a steady Jack,
He only now and then would roll,
Heels upward, on his back.
But all his sport, and dainties too,
And labours now are o'er.
Last night so bleak a tempest blew,
He could withstand no more.
He felt his feeble limbs grow cold,
His blood was freezing slow,
And presently you might behold
Him dead upon the snow.
Poor donkey! travellers passing by,
Thy cold remains shall view;
And 'twould be well if all who die
To duty were as true.
Anne Taylor
[Page 170--Moo Moo Land]
The Cow and The Ass
Beside a green meadow
A stream us'd to flow,
So clear one might see
The white pebbles below;
To this cooling brook
The warm cattle would stray,
To stand in the shade,
On a hot summer's day.
A cow, quite oppress'd
With the heat of the sun,
Came here to refresh
As she often had done,
And standing quite still,
Leaning over the stream,
Was musing, perhaps;
Or perhaps she might dream.
But soon a brown ass,
Of respectable look
Came trotting up also,
To taste of the brook,
And to nibble a few
Of the daisies and grass.
"How d'ye do?" said the cow:
"How d'ye do?" said the ass.
"Take a seat," cried the cow,
Gently waving her hand.
"By no means, dear madam,"
Said he, "while you stand."
Then stooping to drink,
With a complaisant bow,
"Ma'am, your health." said the ass;
"Thank you, sir," said the cow.
When a few of these compliments
More had been pass'd,
They laid themselves down
On the herbage at last;
And waited politely
(As gentlemen must),
The ass held his tongue,
That the cow might speak first.
Then, with a deep sigh,
She directly began,
"Don't you think, Mr. Ass,
We are injured by man?
'Tis a subject that lies
With a weight on my mind:
We certainly are much
Oppress'd by mankind.
"Now what is the reason
(I see none at all)
That I always must go
When Suke pleases to call?
Whatever I'm doing
('Tis certainly hard),
I'm forc'd to leave off
To be milked in the yard.
"I've no will of my own,
But must do as they please,
And give them my milk
To make butter and cheese;
I've often a great mind
To kick down the pail,
Or give Suke a box
On the ears with my tail."
"But ma'am," said the ass,
"Not presuming to teach--
O dear, I beg pardon--
Pray finish your speech;
I thought you had finish'd,
Indeed," said the swain,
"Go on, and I'll not
Interrupt you again."
"Why, sir, I was only
Just going to observe,
I'm resolved that these tyrants
No longer I'll serve;
But leave them for ever
To do as they please,
And look somewhere else
For their butter and cheese."
Ass waited a moment,
To see if she'd done,
And then, "Not presuming
To teach," he begun.
"With submission, dear madam,
To your better wit,
I own I am not quite
Convinced by it yet.
"That you're of great service
To them is quite true,
But surely they are
Of some service to you.
'Tis their pleasant meadow
In which you regale;
They feed you in winter,