A long day’s march behind and home before,
The patient beast trudged on with labored breath,
Though each step more seemed like to be its death.
Its toil-worn frame was so exceeding thin
You would have said ‘twas naught but bones and skin.
It bore full many marks of cruel blows,
And in its eyes one read the tale of those
That suffer hardship without hope. Meanwhile
Its master heaped upon it curses vile,
Nor spared the cudgel; but the road was deep