FROM "THE LORD OF BUTRAGO."
Your horse is faint, my King, my lord! your gallant horse is sick,—
His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick;
Mount, mount on mine, O mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly!
Or in my arms I'll lift your Grace,—their trampling hoofs are nigh!
My King, my King! you're wounded sore,—the blood runs from your feet;
But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat;
Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!—I hear their coming cry,—
Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy,—I'll save you, though I die!
Stand, noble steed! this hour of need,—be gentle as a lamb;
I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth,—thy master dear I am,—
Mount, Juan, mount; whate'er betide, away the bridle fling,
Drive on, drive on with utmost speed,—My horse shall save my King!
Lockart's Spanish Ballads.