But never a horse comes up again.
The greasy yard where the red hides lie
Marks the place where the horses die.
Wheat was sinking year by year,
I bought things cheap, I sold them dear;
Rent was heavy and taxes high,
And a weary-hearted man was I.
In Lindisfaire I walked my grounds,
I hadn't the heart to ride to hounds;
And as I walked in black despair,