And you, young R-s-b-ry, if you come a cropper
Over that dark, dim pile, where shall we be?
Pest! I can hardly see
An inch before my nose—not to say clearly.
Hold him up, H-rc-rt! He was down then, nearly,
Our crook-knee'd "crock." Seems going very queerly,
Although so short a time out of the stable.
Quiet him, William, quiet him!—if you're able.
This is no spot for him to fall. I dread
The need—just here—of "sitting on his head."