The horse slow jogged along his Sunday gait.
This horse he got by trading with a Jew,
And called him Moses,—nothing else would do.
He’d been a race-horse in his palmy days,
But now had settled down, to pious ways,—
Save now and then backsliding from his creed,
When overtempted to a burst of speed.
’Twas early, and the deacon’s wife was driving,
While from the book the deacon hard was striving
On sacred things to concentrate his mind—