(See correspondence in _The Spectator_ upon the sufferings of old horses
exported alive to Antwerp.)
"Master, it was long ago you rode me;
Master, you were careful of me then;
Never was there anyone bestrode me
Equal to my master among men.
When we flew the hedge and ditch together--
'_Good lass!_'--how it made me prick my ear!
Horn and hound, bright steel and polished leather,
Long ago--if you but saw me here!"
_Pitiless wind and heaving surge,
A fevered foot and a running sore,
The siren's shriek for a funeral dirge,
And a hobble to death on the further shore._
"Master, it was long ago you bought me;
Master, you were proud to see me strain,
Matching all my might as nature taught me
With the loaded burden of the wain.
When I drew the harvest waggon single--
'_Good lad!_'--how I turned my head to see!
Chain and hames and brasses all a-jingle,
Long ago--do you remember me?"
_Pitiless surge and driving hail,
A ship a-roll in a dazing roar,
A shoulder split on an iron rail,
And a hobble to death on the further shore._
"Master, you were saddened when we parted,
Begged of my new master to be kind;
Divers owners since and divers-hearted
Leave me old and weary, lame and blind.
Voices in the tempest passing over--
'_Good lass!_'--I can scarcely turn my head.
Oats and deep-strewn stall and rack of clover,
Long ago--and oh that I were dead!"
_Piteous fate--too long to live,
Piteous end for a friend of yore;
Was it too much of a boon to give
A merciful death on the nearer shore?_
* * * * *