Four alders guard a bridge of planks
And waveless waters filmed with brown,
A rugged lawn’s uneven banks
Slope gently down,
And there, still chafing at the chain
That girds his slim pathetic throat,
They’ve picketed our friend again—
The Baby Goat.
Treading alone the watered vale,
Betsey and I, beside the marsh
Often we linger to bewail
His durance harsh;
What plaints allure my baby’s feet,
What tethered struggles claim her sighs,
What shrill protestant whinnies greet
Her long good-byes.
Once we repassed the lonely ground
Below the alders where he feeds
And spied his stunted horns girt round
With flow’ring weeds,
Two merry wenches and a child
Caressed his grey ill-fitting coat
And, lolling in the sedge, beguiled
The Baby Goat.
Now, for long days companionless,
His soft blunt nose, his agate eyes,
His raised remonstrant brows express
The sad surprise
Wherewith the desolate green waste
O’erloads his heart who at the edge
Of stagnant waters kneels to taste
The thankless sedge.
His Mother is his chiefest lack
Who in some heathy upland place
Tidied his sturdy socks of black
And licked his face;
He turns to see us saunter by
The level highway hand-in-hand—
I think the Baby Goat knows why
We understand.