Thy mare at them her tail may toss,—
That running stream they cannot cross.
But ere the key-stone she could make,
The deuce a tail had she to shake,
For Nickie, far before the rest,
Hard on that nag so nimble prest,
And flew at Weg with hope to settle;
But little knew he that mare’s mettle.
One spring brought Weg off safe and hale,
But left behind her own grey tail;