THE WAGONER.
| I've often thought if I were asked Whose lot I envied most— What one, I thought most lightly tasked Of man's unnumber'd host— I'd say, I'd be a mountain boy, And drive a noble team, Wo, hoy! Wo, hoy! I'd cry, And lightly fly Into my saddle seat; My rein I'd slack— My whip I'd crack— What music is so sweet? Six blacks I'd drive, of ample chest, All carrying high the head; All harness'd tight, and gaily drest In winkers tipp'd with red— Oh yes, I'd be a mountain boy And such a team I'd drive, Wo, hoy! Wo, hoy! I'd cry, The lint should fly— Wo, hoy! you Dobbin! Ball! Their feet should ring And I would sing, I'd sing my fal de rol. My bells would tingle, tingle ling, Beneath each bear-skin cap; And as I saw them swing and swing, I'd be the merriest chap— Yes, then I'd be a mountain boy And drive a jingling team, Wo, hoy! Wo, hoy! I'd cry— My words should fly, Each horse would prick his ear; With tighten'd chain My lumbering wain Would move in its career. The golden sparks, you'd see them spring Beneath my horse's tread; Each tail, I'd braid it up with string Of blue, or flaunting red; So does, you know, the mountain boy Who drives a dashing team, Wo, hoy! Wo, hoy! I'd cry Each horse's eye With fire would seem to burn; With lifted head And nostril spread They'd seem the earth to spurn. They'd champ the bit, and fling the foam, As on they dragged my load; And I would think of distant home, And whistle upon the road— Oh would I were a mountain boy— I'd drive a six-horse team, Wo, hoy! Wo, hoy! I'd cry— Now by yon sky, I'd sooner drive those steeds Than win renown, Or wear a crown Won by victorious deeds! For crowns oft press the languid head, And health the wearer shuns, And Victory, trampling on the dead, May do for Goths and Huns— Seek them who will, they have no joys For mountain lads, and Wagon-boys. |