A Song of Homage.
Along the country lanes I bear her gaily,
Between deep hedgerows where the wild flowers spring,
Where hawthorn blooms, where trees grow greener daily,
And mounting skylarks sing.
Nature thus decked in glorious robes, forgetting
The sombre weeds of winter laid aside,
Makes for my mistress but a proper setting
When she goes forth to ride.
For she so young and fair, yet never thinking
How fair, gives promise of more wondrous grace,
With kind grey eyes from wells of sunshine drinking,
Set in a perfect face.
I, Blacky, am her slave, well-groomed and sightly,
Who loves—nay life without it were a blank—
The feeling of her habit flapping lightly
Against my shining flank.
I am her willing slave; in doing blindly
Her smallest pleasure lies my pleasure too,
Content because she ever treats me kindly
As friend and comrade true.
How could I be a rogue with her or idle?
Nay, how could horse do aught except rejoice
To feel a hand so gentle on the bridle,
To hear so sweet a voice?
And often when I stand at leisure feeding,
Shut in my box, from all excitement barred,
I catch the sound of welcome footsteps speeding
Across the stable-yard.
“Blacky,” she calls; I whinny as she presses
Her face to mine with words I understand,
While, mingling with the sweets of her caresses,
Comes sugar from her hand.
Blacky.