JACK’S LAST MUSTER
The first flush of grey light, the herald of daylight,
Is dimly outlining the musterers’ camp,
Where over the sleeping the stealthily creeping
Breath of the morning lies chilly and damp,
As, blankets forsaking, ’twixt sleeping and waking,
The black-boys turn out to the manager's call—
Whose order, of course, is, ‘Be after the horses,
And take all sorts of care you unhobble them all!’
Then, each with a bridle (provokingly idle),
They saunter away his commands to fulfil,
Where, cheerily chiming, the musical rhyming
From equine bell-ringers comes over the hill.
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