RHYMES BY THE ROADSIDE.
We're losing fast the good old days
Of rattling wheels and gallant grays;
We're losing fast the luggaged roof,
The whistling guard and ringing hoof;—
The English stage and high-bred teams
Will soon exist but in our dreams;
And whirling mail or startling horn
Ne'er cheer the night, nor rouse the morn.
Ah, well-a-day! no cracking lash,
No champing bit, no restless dash,
No "pull up" at the "Cross" or "Crown,"
'Mid all the gossips of the town:
For Time, with deep, railroaded brow,
Changes all things but horses, now.—
Yet, who shall wish for nobler speed?
Who would forego the rapid steed!
Who that loves Beauty would resign.
The winding road for formal "line"?
'Tis joy to mount the lofty seat,
That bears us from the city street;
To lightly roll from pent-up smoke,
To singing bird and towering oak,
Scanning, despite our bounding haste,
The forest dell and heath-clad waste,—
On through the valley, rich and rife
With fragrant air and blooming life,
Where the clear brooklet softly flows,
Kissing the lily as it goes;—
Where quiet herds lie down to crop
The grass-blade and the clover-top;
Of rattling wheels and gallant grays;
We're losing fast the luggaged roof,
The whistling guard and ringing hoof;—
The English stage and high-bred teams
Will soon exist but in our dreams;
And whirling mail or startling horn
Ne'er cheer the night, nor rouse the morn.
Ah, well-a-day! no cracking lash,
No champing bit, no restless dash,
No "pull up" at the "Cross" or "Crown,"
'Mid all the gossips of the town:
For Time, with deep, railroaded brow,
Changes all things but horses, now.—
Yet, who shall wish for nobler speed?
Who would forego the rapid steed!
Who that loves Beauty would resign.
The winding road for formal "line"?
'Tis joy to mount the lofty seat,
That bears us from the city street;
To lightly roll from pent-up smoke,
To singing bird and towering oak,
Scanning, despite our bounding haste,
The forest dell and heath-clad waste,—
On through the valley, rich and rife
With fragrant air and blooming life,
Where the clear brooklet softly flows,
Kissing the lily as it goes;—
Where quiet herds lie down to crop
The grass-blade and the clover-top;
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