And drove, to win a peasant’s fare,
The horse that once a lord did bear.
He crawled where London’s smoky Tower
Looks out from Thames’ muddy bower;
The cab-hack gazed with wistful eye,
Alas! no resting-place was nigh,
With weak and faltering step at last
The glaring sausage-shop he passed,
Whose ponderous chopping-up machine
The rest of all his race had seen.