And lo, in the frosty mould,
Like a star from the skies to his dazzled eyes,
Was blazing a bulb of gold!
XXVI.
"Now,"—cling, clang,—"whoa, my bonny
gray mare!
Or gallop or trot, as ye may!
This happy old smith will shoe ye no more,
For he sits at his ease, all day! "