THE HORSE AND HIS MASTER
(A panegyric)
My—anything but beautiful, that standest "knock-knee'd" by,
"Inverted arch" describes thy back, as "dismal" doth thine eye.
Fret not—go roam the commons now, limp there for want of speed;
I dare not mount on thee ('twere pain), thou bag of bones, indeed.
Fret not with that too patient hoof, puff not with wheezy wind;
The harder that thou roarest now the more we lag behind;
The stranger "had" thy master, brute, for twice ten pounds, all told;
I only wish he had thee back! Too late—I'm sold! I'm sold!
To-morrow's sun will dawn again, but ah! no ride for me.
Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as thee?
'Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing up for rain;
I'll lead thee then, with slow, slow steps, to some "bait stables" plain.
(When a horse dealer cheats, with eyes of clap-trap truth and tears,
A hack's form for an instant like a thoroughbred's appears.)
And sitting down, I'll ponder well beside this water's brink,
Here—what's thy name? Come, Rosinante! Drink pretty (?) creature, drink!
Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away! this wretched farce is o'er;
I could not live a day and know that we must meet once more.
I've tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger's power be strong,
They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou hast lived too long!
Who says that I'll give in? Come up! who says thou art not old?
Thy faults were faults, poor useless steed, I fear, when thou wert foal'd.
Thus, thus I whack upon thy back; go, scour with might and main
The asphalt! Ha! who stops thee now may have thee for his gain.
Philip F. Allen.