. Saddle room songs and hunting ballads. ere as bad as his seat. That day the hounds had a good run, sir,They turned a fox out of the gorse ; That cockney, he galloped for miles on theroad,Which is terrible hard on a horse. The Cavalier loved to go hunting,He loved to dash over the grass; Cavalier. 39 In the days of his youth hed have been atthe front,And not let another horse pass : But years always tell on a horse, sir,The same as they tell on a man, And to clatter down roads with a fool onhis backTwas impossible quite, no horse can. The cockney was frightened of fences, On the Kings hard, h
. Saddle room songs and hunting ballads. ere as bad as his seat. That day the hounds had a good run, sir,They turned a fox out of the gorse ; That cockney, he galloped for miles on theroad,Which is terrible hard on a horse. The Cavalier loved to go hunting,He loved to dash over the grass; Cavalier. 39 In the days of his youth hed have been atthe front,And not let another horse pass : But years always tell on a horse, sir,The same as they tell on a man, And to clatter down roads with a fool onhis backTwas impossible quite, no horse can. The cockney was frightened of fences, On the Kings hard, high road he would go, So he flogged and he spurred for an hourand a cried that the horse was too slow. The Cavalier was there at the death, they threw the red fox to the hound, But his brave heart was broke, he was finished,He staggered, and fell to the ground : 40 Cavalier. Then up came a sporting farmer, Who gazed on his corpse with a tear, Saying, There lies the last of the besthorse I bred,The last of the THE RECOLLECTIONS OF ALONDON CAB-HORSE. I remember a soft, green pasture, Where cowslips and clover grew,And my mother grazing near me : It seems almost too good to be true:I wish I could be there once again, In that same, sweet scented field,Sheltering from the rainstorm Neath the oak trees leafy beside my mother, A colt without fear or of pacing the slippery streets In the lamplights lurid glare. 42 The Recollections of a LondonCab-Horse. Its all right for you that have never Been aught but what I am now,In a night cab, in foggy London ; I would rather be yoked to a plough,Then at least I should be in the open. And see the fields once more,And listen to lark and throstle, Instead of the citys roar. I remember they came to break me, I was only a yearling then,And they taught me to wear a saddle. And I studied the ways of men;I was put in a roomy loose box. And galloped each break of my master he patted my s
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