“Ho, ho!” guffawed a rustic. “There aint much left of Nat now—
Poor old hoss! poor old hoss!
Once I eat the best of hay,
And lived in a foine stall;
But now I eats the short grass
As grows agen the wall.
Poor old hoss! poor old hoss!
Thee must die.”
“Ah! ye may laugh and sing,” said Nat, shaking his head and his voice quavering. “I mind the time when I used to troll that same ditty to grey hairs. It’s right it should fall back on me now.”
“Poor old hoss!” chanted Nelly.