Fret not with that too patient hoof, puff not with wheezy wind;
The harder that thou roarest now the more we lag behind.
The stranger “had” thy master, brute, for twice ten pounds, all told;
I only wish he had thee back! Too late—I’m sold! I’m sold!
To-morrow’s sun will dawn again, but ah! no ride for me.
Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as thee?
’Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing up for rain;
I’ll lead thee then, with slow, slow step, to some “bait stables” plain
(When a horse-dealer cheats, with eyes of clap-trap truth and tears,
A hack’s form for an instant like a thoroughbred’s appears);