My pony toss'd his sprightly head,
And would have smiled, if smile he could,
To thank me for the slice of bread
He thinks so delicate and good;
His eye is very bright and wild,
He looks as if he loved me so,
Although I only am a child
And he's a real horse, you know.
How charming it would be to rear,
And have hind legs to balance on;
Of hay and oats within the year
To leisurely devour a ton;
To stoop my head and quench my drouth
With water in a lovely pail;
To wear a snaffle in my mouth,
Fling back my ears, and slash my tail!
To gallop madly round a field,—
Who tries to catch me is a goose,
And then with dignity to yield
My stately back for rider's use;
To feel as only horses can,
When matters take their proper course,
And no one notices the man,
While loud applauses greet the horse!
He canters fast or ambles slow,
And either is a pretty game;
His duties are but pleasures—oh,
I wish that mine were just the same!
Lessons would be another thing
If I might turn from book and scroll,
And learn to gallop round a ring,
As he did when a little foal.
It must be charming to be shod,
And beautiful beyond my praise,
When tired of rolling on the sod,
To stand upon all-fours and graze!
Alas! my dreams are weak and wild,
I must not ape my betters so;
Alas! I only am a child,
And he's a real horse, you know.
"A."
On a Spaniel, called Beau,
Killing a Young Bird
(July 15, 1793)
A Spaniel, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue
Each trifle that he sees.
But you have kill'd a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day,
Against my orders, whom you heard
Forbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eat,
And ease a doggish pain,
For him, though chas'd with furious heat
You left where he was slain.
Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours.
My dog! What remedy remains,
Since, teach you all I can,
I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble Man?
William Cowper.
Beau's Reply