Chapter 30

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, 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, When grass and weeds fail.

"And then a warm cover They always provide, Dear madam, to shelter Your delicate hide, For my own part, I know I receive much from man, And for him, in return, I do all I can."

The cow, upon this, Cast her eyes on the grass, Not pleas'd at thus being Reproved by an ass, Yet, thought she, "I'm determined I'll benefit by't, For I really believe That the fellow is right."

Jane Taylor

The Cow

Come, children, listen to me now, And you will hear about the cow; You'll find her useful, alive or dead, Whether she's black, or white, or red.

When milkmaids milk her morn and night She gives them milk so fresh and white, And this we, little children, think Is very nice for us to drink.

The curdled milk they press and squeeze, And so they make it into cheese; The cream they skim and shake in churns, And then it soon to butter turns.

And when she's dead, her flesh is good, For beef is a very wholesome food, But though 'twill make us brave and strong, To eat too much, you know, is wrong.

Her skin, with lime and bark together, The tanner tans, and makes into leather, And without that, what should we do For soles of every boot and shoe?

The shoemaker cuts it with his knife And bound the tops are by his wife; And so they nail them to the last, And then they stitch them tight and fast.

The hair that grows upon her back Is taken, whether white or black, And mix'd with plaster, short or long, Which makes it very firm and strong.