The colts are pasturin', bold an' lusty,
Sleek they are with their coats aglow,
Ripe to break, but the bits grow rusty
And the saddles sit in a dusty row.
Old O'Dwyer was here a-Monday
With a few grey gran'fathers out for a field
(Like the ghostly hunt of a dead an'-*done day),
They—an' some lassies that giggled an' squealed.
The houn's they rioted like the devil
(They ran a hare an' they killed a goose);