Page 166—Gee Gee Land

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.

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