The driver rubbed at his nettly chin
With a huge, loose forefinger, crooked and black,
And his wobbly, violet lips sucked in,
And puffed out again and hung down slack:
One fang shone through his lop-sided smile,
In his little pouched eye flickered years of guile.
And the horse, poor beast, it was ribbed and forked,
And its ears hung down, and its eyes were old,
And its knees were knuckly, and as we talked
It swung the stiff neck that could scarcely hold
Its big, skinny head up--then I stepped in,
And the driver climbed to his seat with a grin.
God help the horse and the driver too,
And the people and beasts who have never a friend,
For the driver easily might have been you,
And the horse be me by a different end.
And nobody knows how their days will cease,
And the poor, when they're old, have little of peace.
_John Drinkwater_
Primarily a poetic dramatist, John Drinkwater, born in 1882, is best
known as the author of _Abraham Lincoln--A Play_ (1919) founded on
Lord Charnwood's masterly and analytical biography. He has published
several volumes of poems, most of them meditative and elegiac in mood.
The best of his verses have been collected in _Poems, 1908-19_, and
the two here reprinted are used by permission, and by special
arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers.