'Tis Sabbath-day, the poor man walks
Blithe from his cottage door,
And to his parting young ones talks
As they skip on before.
The father is a man of joy,
From his week's toil released;
And jocund is each little boy
To see his father pleased.
But, looking to a field at hand,
Where the grass grows rich and high,
A no less merry Sabbath band
Of horses met my eye.
Poor skinny beasts, that go all week
With loads of earth and stones,
Bearing, with aspect dull and meek,
Hard work, and cudgel'd bones.
But now let loose to roam athwart
The farmer's clover-lea
With whisking tails, and jump and snort,
They speak a clumsy glee.
Lolling across each other's necks,
Some look like brother's dear;
Other's are full of flings and kicks--
Antics uncouth and queer.
Superannuated Horse to His Master,
who has Sentenced him to Die
And hast thou sealed my doom, sweet master, say?
And wilt thou kill thy servant old and poor?
A little longer let me live, I pray;
A little longer hobble round the door.
For much it glads me to behold this place--
And house me in this hospitable shed;
It glads me more to see mu master's face,
And linger on the spot where I was bred.
For oh! to think of what we have enjoyed,
In my life's prime, e'er I was old and poor!
Then from the jocund morn to eve employed,
My gracious master on my back I bore.
Thrice ten years have danced on down along,
Since first to thee these way-born limbs I gave;
Sweet smiling years! When both of was were young--
The kindest master and the happiest slave.
Ah! years sweet smiling, now for ever flown,
Ten years, thrice fold, alas! are as a day.
Yet as together we are aged grown,
Together let us wear that age away.
And hast thou fixed my doom, sweet master, say?
And wilt thou kill thy servant old and poor?
A little longer let me live, I pray,
A little longer hobble round thy door.
But oh! Kind Nature, take thy victim's life!
And thou a servant feeble, old, and poor;
So shalt thou save me from the uplifted knife,
And gently stretch me at my master's door.