Page:Poems Cook.djvu/48

He was bred in the forest, and turn'd on the plain,
Where the thistle-burs clung to his fetlocks and mane.
All ugly and rough, not a soul could espy
The spark of good-nature that dwelt in his eye.

The Summer had waned, and the Autumn months roll'd
Into those of stern Winter, all dreary and cold;
But the north wind might whistle, the snow-flake might dance—
The colt of the common was left to his chance.

Half-starved and half-frozen, the hail-storm would pelt,
Till his shivering limbs told the pangs that he felt:
But we pitied the brute, and, though laugh'd at by all,
We fill'd him a manger and gave him a stall.

He was fond as a spaniel, and soon he became
The pride of the herd-boy, the pet of the dame.
'Tis well that his market-price cannot be known;
But we christen'd him Dobbin, and call'd him our own.

He grew out of colthood, and, lo! what a change!
The knowing ones said it was "mortally strange;
For the foal of the forest, the colt of the waste,
Attracted the notice of jockeys of taste.

The line of his symmetry was not exact;
But his paces were clever, his mould was compact;
And his shaggy, thick coat now appear'd with a gloss,
Shining out like the gold that's been purged of its dross.

We broke him for service, and tamely he wore
Girth and rein, seeming proud of the thraldom he bore;
Each farm, it is known, must possess an "odd" steed,
And Dobbin was ours, for all times, and all need.

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