Here's a song for old Dobbin, whose temper and worth Are too rare to be spurn'd on the score of his birth. He's a creature of trust, and what more should we heed? 'Tis deeds, and not blood, make the man and the steed.
He was bred in the forest, and turn'd on the plain, Where the thistle-burs clung to his fetlocks and mane. All ugly and rough, not a soul could espy The spark of good-nature that dwelt in his eye.
The Summer had waned, and the Autumn months roll'd Into those of stern Winter, all dreary and cold; But the north wind might whistle, the snow-flake might dance— The colt of the common was left to his chance.
Half-starved and half-frozen, the hail-storm would pelt, Till his shivering limbs told the pangs that he felt: But we pitied the brute, and, though laugh'd at by all, We fill'd him a manger and gave him a stall.
He was fond as a spaniel, and soon he became The pride of the herd-boy, the pet of the dame. 'Tis well that his market-price cannot be known; But we christen'd him Dobbin, and call'd him our own.
He grew out of colthood, and, lo! what a change! The knowing ones said it was "mortally strange; For the foal of the forest, the colt of the waste, Attracted the notice of jockeys of taste.
The line of his symmetry was not exact; But his paces were clever, his mould was compact; And his shaggy, thick coat now appear'd with a gloss, Shining out like the gold that's been purged of its dross.
We broke him for service, and tamely he wore Girth and rein, seeming proud of the thraldom he bore; Each farm, it is known, must possess an "odd" steed, And Dobbin was ours, for all times, and all need.
He carried the master to barter his grain, And ever return'd with him safely again: There was merit in that, for deny it who may, When the master could not, Dobbin could find his way.
The dairy-maid ventured her eggs on his back: 'Twas him, and him only, she'd trust with the pack. The team-horses jolted, the roadster play'd pranks; So Dobbin alone had her faith and her thanks.
We fun-loving urchins would group by his side; We might fearlessly mount him, and daringly ride: We might creep through his legs, we might plait his long tail; But his temper and patience were ne'er known to fail.
We would brush his bright hide till 'twas free from a speck; We kiss'd his brown muzzle, and hugg'd his thick neck: Oh! we prized him like life, and a heart-breaking sob Ever burst when they threaten'd to sell our dear Dob.
He stood to the collar, and tugg'd up the hill, With the pigs to the market, the grist to the mill; With saddle or halter, in shaft or in trace, He was stanch to his work, and content with his place.
When the hot sun was crowning the toil of the year, He was sent to the reapers with ale and good cheer; And none in the corn-field more welcome were seen Than Dob and his well-laden panniers, I ween.
Oh those days of pure bliss shall I ever forget, When we deck'd out his head with the azure rosette; All frantic with joy to be off to the fair, With Dobbin, good Dobbin, to carry us there?
He was dear to us all, ay, for many long years; But, mercy! how's this? my eye's filling with tears. Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, When Memory plays an old tune on the heart!
There are drops on my cheek, there's a throb in my breast; But my song shall not cease, nor my pen take its rest; Till I tell that old Dobbin still lives to be seen, With his oats in the stable, his tares on the green.
His best years have gone by, and the master who gave. The stern yoke to his youth has enfranchised the slave: So browse on, my old Dobbin, nor dream of the knife; For the wealth of a king should not purchase thy life.
