But now the dull dawning gives place to the morning:
The sun, springing up in a glorious flood
Of golden-shot fire, mounts higher and higher,
Till the crests of the sandhills are stained with his blood.
Now hobble-chains’ jingling, with thud of hoofs mingling,
Though distant, sounds near—the cool air is so still—
As, urged by their whooping, the horses come trooping
In front of the boys round the point of the hill.
What searching and rushing for bridles and brushing
Of saddle marks, tight’ning of breastplate and girth!
And what a strange jumble of laughter and grumble—
Some comrade’s misfortune the subject of mirth.
I recollect well how that morning Jack Bell
Had an argument over the age of a mare—
The C O B gray one, the dam of that bay one
Which storekeeper Brown calls the Young Lady Clare;
How Tomboy and Vanity caused much profanity,
Scamp'ring away with their tails in the air,
Till, after a chase at a deuce of a pace,
They ran back in the mob and we collared them there.
