Was eighteenpence a day, working for Squire,

With rabbits twice a year, and sticks for fire,

In a stoopt cottage, broken-backt with age.

His life was among horses from his birth,

He uttered cries which horses understood,

He handled squire’s stallion in his mood.

Strange blood being in him from the ancient earth.

Often, when moons were full, he ranged the Downs,

Much like the fox, but liker to the hare

Who forms in the thymed grass in the hill air,