The Pony
Oh, Brownie, our pony,
A gallant young steed,
Will carry us gaily
O'er hill, dale, and mead.
So sure is his foot,
And so steady his eye.
That even our baby
To mount him might try.
We haste to his stable
To see him each day,
And feed him with oats
And the sweetest of hay.
We pat his rough coat,
And we deck him with flowers,
Oh, never was seen
Such a pony as ours.
The Horse
No one deserves to have a horse
Who takes delight to beat him:
The wise will choose a better course,
And very kindly treat him.
If ever it should be my lot—
To have, for use or pleasure,
One who could safely walk or trot
The horse would be a treasure.
He soon would learn my voice to know
And I would gladly lead him;
And should he to the stable go,
I'd keep him clean and feed him.
I'd teach my horse a steady pace.
Because, if he should stumble
Upon a rough or stony place,
We might both have a tumble.
Should he grow aged, I would still
My poor old servant cherish;
I could not see him weak or ill,
And leave my horse to perish.
For should he get too weak to be
My servant any longer,
I'll send him out to grass quite free,
And get another stronger.
Good Dobbin
Oh! thank you, good Dobbin,
You've been a long track,
And have carried papa
All the way on your back;
You shall have some nice oats,
Faithful Dobbin, indeed,
For you've brought papa home
To his darling with speed.
The howling wind blew,
And the pelting rain beat,
And the thick mud has covered
His legs and his feet,
But yet on he galloped
In spite of the rain,
And has brought papa home,
To his darling again.
The sun it was setting
A long while ago,
And papa could not see
The road where he should go,
But Dobbin kept on
Through the desolate wild,
And has brought papa home
Again safe to his child.
Now go to the stable,
The night is so raw,
Go, Dobbin, and rest
Your old bones on the straw:
Don't stand any longer
Out here in the rain,
For you've brought papa home
To his darling again.
A Horse's Petition to his Master
Up the hill, whip me not;
Down the hill, hurry me not;
In the stable, forget me not;
Of hay and corn, rob me not;
With sponge and brush, neglect me not;
Of soft, dry bed, deprive me not;
If sick or cold, chill me not;
With bit and reins, oh! jerk me not;
And when you are angry, strike me not.

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Page 167—Gee Gee Land

Work-Horses in a Park on Sunday
'Tis Sabbath-day, the poor man walks
Blithe from his cottage door,
And to his parting young ones talks
As they skip on before.
The father is a man of joy,
From his week's toil released;
And jocund is each little boy
To see his father pleased.
But, looking to a field at hand,
Where the grass grows rich and high,
A no less merry Sabbath band
Of horses met my eye.
Poor skinny beasts, that go all week
With loads of earth and stones,
Bearing, with aspect dull and meek,
Hard work, and cudgel'd bones.
But now let loose to roam athwart
The farmer's clover-lea
With whisking tails, and jump and snort,
They speak a clumsy glee.
Lolling across each other's necks,
Some look like brother's dear;
Other's are full of flings and kicks—
Antics uncouth and queer.