Page:Poems Cook.djvu/177

Let us behold some spot where man
Has not yet set his "bar and ban;"
Leave us the green wastes, fresh and wild,
For poor man's beast and poor man's child!

'Tis well to turn our trusty steeds
In chosen stalls and clover meads;
We like to see our "gallant grey"
Snuff daintily his fragrant hay;
But the poor sandman's "Blind old Ball"
Lacks grooms and clover, oats and stall.

With tired limbs and bleeding back
He takes his steady, homeward track;
The hovel gained, he neighs with glee,
From burthen, whip, and bridle free:
Turned forth, he flings his bony length,
And rolls with all his waning strength;
Up on his trembling legs again,
He shakes himself from tail to mane,
And, nibbling with a grateful zest,
Finds on "the common" food and rest.

Hark to the shouts of peasant boys,
With ill-carved bats, and uncheck'd noise!
While "cricket," with its light-heel'd mirth,
Leaves scars upon the grassy earth
Too deeply lined by Summer's play
For Winter's storms to wear away.
Spent by the game, they rove apart,
With lounging form and careless heart
One by the rushing pond will float
Old "Dilworth" in a paper boat;
Another wades, with legs all bare,
To pluck the water-lily fair;

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