The clouds were dark, and grey the morn,
In the hazy hour when I was born;
The guard he whistled, the coach it roll’d,
And the outriders shrieked and shivered with cold,
And never was heard such a curious din,
As when the road-child the world popt in.
I have driven since then in fair and rough,
Full forty winters, a traveller tough,
With primest of cattle, and carriages neat,
And never had a spill or beat,