Down in this ditch poor donkey lies,
Who jogg'd with many a load;
And till the day death clos'd his eyes,
Brows'd up and down this road.
No shelter had he for his head,
Whatever winds might blow;
A neighb'ring commons was his bed,
Tho' drest in sheets of snow.
In this green ditch he often stray'd
To nip the dainty grass;
And friendly invitations bray'd
To some more hungry ass.
Each market-day he jogg'd along
Beneath the gard'ner's load,
And snor'd out many a donkey's song
To friends upon the road.
A tuft of grass, a thistle green,
Or cabbage-leaf so sweet,
Were all the dainties, he was seen
For twenty years to eat.
And as for sport, the sober soul
Was such a steady Jack,
He only now and then would roll,
Heels upward, on his back.
But all his sport, and dainties too,
And labours now are o'er.
Last night so bleak a tempest blew,
He could withstand no more.
He felt his feeble limbs grow cold,
His blood was freezing slow,
And presently you might behold
Him dead upon the snow.
Poor donkey! travellers passing by,
Thy cold remains shall view;
And 'twould be well if all who die
To duty were as true.