THE OLD FARM-GATE.
'Twas over that gate I taught Pincher to bound
With the strength of a steed and the grace of a hound.
The beagle might hunt, and the spaniel might swim;
But none could leap over that postern like him.
When Dobbin was saddled for mirth-making trip,
And the quickly-pull'd willow-branch served for a whip,
Spite of lugging and tugging, he'd stand for his freight;
While I climbed on his back from the Old Farm-gate.
With the strength of a steed and the grace of a hound.
The beagle might hunt, and the spaniel might swim;
But none could leap over that postern like him.
When Dobbin was saddled for mirth-making trip,
And the quickly-pull'd willow-branch served for a whip,
Spite of lugging and tugging, he'd stand for his freight;
While I climbed on his back from the Old Farm-gate.
'Tis well to pass portals where pleasure and fame
May come winging our moments, and gilding our name;
But give me the joy and the freshness of mind,
When, away on some sport—the old gate slamm'd behind—
I've listen'd to music, but none that could speak
In such tones to my heart as that teeth-setting creak
That broke on my ear when the night had worn late,
And the dear ones came home through the Old Farm-gate.
May come winging our moments, and gilding our name;
But give me the joy and the freshness of mind,
When, away on some sport—the old gate slamm'd behind—
I've listen'd to music, but none that could speak
In such tones to my heart as that teeth-setting creak
That broke on my ear when the night had worn late,
And the dear ones came home through the Old Farm-gate.
Oh! fair is the barrier taking its place,
But it darkens a picture my soul long'd to trace.
I sigh to behold the rough staple and hasp,
And the rails that my growing hand scarcely could clasp
Oh how strangely the warm spirit grudges to part
With the commonest relic once link'd to the heart;
And the brightest of fortune—the kindliest fate—
Would not banish my love for the Old Farm-gate.
But it darkens a picture my soul long'd to trace.
I sigh to behold the rough staple and hasp,
And the rails that my growing hand scarcely could clasp
Oh how strangely the warm spirit grudges to part
With the commonest relic once link'd to the heart;
And the brightest of fortune—the kindliest fate—
Would not banish my love for the Old Farm-gate.
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