THE SONG OF THE HORSE.
WITH shins all hash'd and torn,
With carcases skin and bone,
Two nags with a 'bus hung on at the square,
With hunger almost gone—
"Ya hip—hip—hip!"
Shouted one on the dicky borne,
"Should we pick up a fare now, my five-year-olds,
To-morrow you may get corn."
* * * * *
Trot, trot, trot!
Till our giddy brains run round!
Trot, trot, trot!
And that on Christian ground!
Run, gallop, and trot,
Trot, gallop, and run,
Till we weary and weary over again
That our dreadful task were done.
O! others of our race
More favoured than we two!
You little think in your day of grace,
That this fate may come to you!
Soft, soft, soft!
You sleep without a throe!
Hard, hard, hard!
We struggle through drifted snow!
(Eight verses omitted).
J. M. CRAWFORD, Greenock, March, 1844.
Many years ago The New York Herald had a long parody of the "Song of the Shirt," entitled The Lament of Ashland. It commenced:—
"WITH brows all clammy and cold,
With face all haggard and wan,
The "Hero of Bladensburgh" sat in his chair,
And uttered a fearful groan;
Wake, wake, wake!
Ye Whigs from your drowsy bed;
And wake, wake, wake!
Ere my hopes are all perished and fled."
There were seven more verses, but as the parody was of purely local interest, they are not here quoted.