The road was so smooth, and your canter so quick,
'Twas better, old lad, than we either had dreamed.
A great disappointment to some folk, I think.
Then we halted half-way for a rest and a drink.
That big Irish Pig, which had plagued us so oft.
Was away,—running after its head or its tail!
Oh joy, Dobbin, dear, to jog on, and go soft,
No row, no obstruction by hedge-gap or rail.
Ah, then they discovered the pace and the pith
Of Dobbin the dull, and his mount, Farmer SMITH.