Pity the sorrows of a poor cab horse,
Whose jaded limbs have many a mile to go.
Whose weary days are drawing to a close,
And but in death will he a rest e'er know.
When the cold winds of dreary winter rage,
And snow and hail come down in blinding sheet,
And people refuge see 'neath roof or arch,
The cab-horse stands unsheltered in the street.
Though worn and weary with useful life,
In patient service to his master--man;
No fair retirement waits his failing years,
He yet must do the utmost work he can.
His legs are stiff, his shoulders rubbed and sore,
His knees are broken and his sight is dim,
But no physician comes his wounds to heal,
The lash is all the cure that's given him.
Ye kindly hearts that spare the whip, and stroke,
Just now and then, with kindly hand, his mane;
Or pat his sides, or give a pleasant word,
Your tender-heartedness is not in vain.
He has not many friends to plead his cause;
He has not speech his own wrongs to outpour.
Pity the sorrows of a poor cab-horse;
Give him relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
[Illustration: Dobbins Saving Puss From a Dog.]
[Page 168--Gee Gee Land]
[Illustration: Clever Horses.]