The Farmer's Apostrophe to His Old Blind Horse
And shall I turn thee out to die.
Because no light is in thy eve,
Like yon blind wretch 'neath winter's sky?
No, eat thy oats, old Golly,
I think upon thy younger days,
When thou were all the country's praise
In cart or plough. On broad highways
How didst thou race. old Golly!
The panting winds thou would outstrip.
Thy way through brake and bramble rip.
O'er bog and hedge, nor spur nor whip
Dishonoured thee, old Golly.
Canst thou forget that sunny day
When thou didst draw the wain of hay
High up beyond the castle, eh?
Thou brute of brutes, old Golly.
On market nights, astride thy back,
With my week's sirloin in my sack,
When skies were dark and lanes were black,
Thou brought'st me home, old Golly.
But he who owns thy honest hide.
Which once shone bright in youthful pride
Will never on the common wide
Thrust thee to die, old Golly.
So comfort thee within thy shed.
Nor fear the wild winds overhead
I'l1 see that thou art housed and fed.
Till death shall smite old Golly.
