His tail won’t wag, his mane declines to shake.
In wain my daily ’larum-bell I take,
Till his ears tingle with its brazen ringing
In wain would I the British Lion wake!
In wain I warn him of that Northern snake,
Who midst our Injun grass will soon be stinging;
His tail won’t wag, his mane declines to shake.
* * * * *
He sleeps as placid as a windless lake;
Cold water on my fire his calm is flinging.