Volume 146 — THE MOAN OF THE OLD HORSES.
Reading edition
See correspondence in The Spectator upon the sufferings of old horses exported alive to Antwerp.
"Master, it was long ago you rode me; Master, you were careful of me then; Never was there anyone bestrode me Equal to my master among men. When we flew the hedge and ditch together— 'Good lass!'—how it made me prick my ear! Horn and hound, bright steel and polished leather, Long ago—if you but saw me here!" Pitiless wind and heaving surge, A fevered foot and a running sore, The siren's shriek for a funeral dirge, And a hobble to death on the further shore. "Master, it was long ago you bought me; Master, you were proud to see me strain, Matching all my might as nature taught me With the loaded burden of the wain. When I drew the harvest waggon single— 'Good lad!'—how I turned my head to see! Chain and hames and brasses all a-jingle, Long ago—do you remember me?" Pitiless surge and driving hail, A ship a-roll in a dazing roar, A shoulder split on an iron rail, And a hobble to death on the further shore. "Master, you were saddened when we parted, Begged of my new master to be kind; Divers owners since and divers-hearted Leave me old and weary, lame and blind. Voices in the tempest passing over— 'Good lass!'—I can scarcely turn my head. Oats and deep-strewn stall and rack of clover, Long ago—and oh that I were dead!" Piteous fate—too long to live, Piteous end for a friend of yore; Was it too much of a boon to give A merciful death on the nearer shore?
The New "White Hope."
"'I passed through several drawing-rooms,' she says. 'I saw ladies who were so shy that they couldn't utter a word before me, but who suddenly put a ribbon round my wrist to measure it'—you know, of course, by reputation Polaire's 15-inch wrist."—Sunday Chronicle.
If the biceps is in proportion, Bandsman Blake should tremble.