THE DONKEY-BOYS OF ENGLAND
(A Song for the Seaside)
The Donkey-Boys of England, how merrily they fly,
With pleasant chaff upon the tongue and cunning in the eye.
And oh! the donkeys in a mass how patiently they stand,
High on the heath of Hampstead, or down on Ramsgate's sand.
The Donkey-Boys of England, how sternly they reprove
The brute that won't "come over", with an impressive shove;
And oh! the eel-like animals, how gracefully they swerve
From side to side, but won't advance to spoil true beauty's curve.
The Donkey-Boys of England, how manfully they fight,
When a probable donkestrian comes suddenly in sight;
From nurse's arms the babies are clutch'd with fury wild,
And on a donkey carried off the mother sees her child.
The Donkey-Boys of England, how sternly they defy
The pleadings of a parent's shriek, the infant's piercing cry;
As a four-year-old Mazeppa is hurried from the spot,
Exposed to all the tortures of a donkey's fitful trot.
The Donkey-Boys of England, how lustily they scream,
When they strive to keep together their donkeys in a team;
And the riders who are anxious to be class'd among genteels,
Have a crowd of ragged Donkey-boys "hallooing" at their heels.
The Donkey-Boys of England, how well they comprehend
The animal to whom they act as master, guide, and friend;
The understanding that exists between them who'll dispute—
Or that the larger share of it falls sometimes to the brute?
