Out of the Market Place an alley led
To Poultry Cross and old white Jocko sped
Beneath its shelter and surveyed the stalls
Which here sell hobby horse, tops and balls,
And tins for little cakes. One stall was full
Of button-cards and reels and hanks of wool,
Another sold you sage and pansy roots,
And this, red carpet-slippers, hob-nailed boots
And clogs, and hanging on a string by twos
A row of little russet leather shoes;
Tears filled his eyes, he turned to look again,—
“Those shoes,” said he, “are just like Betsey-Jane.”
X
While thus he spake two farmers sauntered past
And turned to stare at Jocko, said the last,—
“I saw that monkey next a Spanish hen,
The little beast has wandered from his pen!”
Jocko is captured by the portly pair,
They lead him, passive, to the Market Square;
Once more the hens their throats exultant crane,—
“Jocko!” they cackle; “Here he is again!”
The farmers stuff our hero, sad and sore,
Into a vacant pen and slam the door:—
Through the grim wires the searching breezes moan
And Jocko sits there shivering alone.