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.

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