Classic Poem

Come , hie thee on, my gentle Gyp;
Thy rider bears nor spur nor whip,
But smooths thy jetty, shining mane,
And loosely flings the bridle-rein.

The sun is down behind the hill,
The noise is hushed about the mill,
The gabbling geese and ducks forsake
Their sports upon the glassy late,
The herd-boy folds his bleating charge,
The watch-dog, chainless, roves at large,
The bees are gathered in the hive,
The evening flowers their perfumes give
On, on, my gentle Gyp! but stay:
Say, whither shall we bend our way?
Down to the school-house, where the boys
Greet us with rude caressing noise?
Where urchins leave their balls and bats,
To stroke thy neck with fondling pats;
Where laughing girls bring oats and hay,
And coax thy ears; well knowing they
Can sport right fearlessly and free
With such a gentle brute as thee?
Or shall we take the sandy road
Towards the wealthy squire's abode?
Where the lodge gate, so wide and high,
Swings nobly back for you and I;
I'll warrant me, that gate thou'dst find,
Though reinless, riderless, and blind.

Thou'rt restless, Gyp; come, start and go: —
You take the hill; well, be it so —
The squire's abode, I plainly see,
Has equal charms for you and me.
'Tis there thou art allowed to pick
The corners of the clover rick;
'Tis there, by lady's hand thou'rt fed
On pulpy fruit, and finest bread.
The squire himself declares thou art
The prettiest pony round the part:
Nor black, nor chestnut, roan, nor gray,
Can match with thy rich glossy bay
He says, thy neck's proud curving line
The artist's pencil might define;
With blood and spirit, yet so mild, —
A fitting plaything for a child;
So meekly docile, thou'rt indeed
More like a pet lamb than a steed;
That when thou'rt gone, St. Leonard's plain
Will never see thy like again!
He says all this! No wonder, then,
I think the squire the best of men:
For they who praise thy form and paces
Are sure to get in my good graces.

The squire tells truth; to say the least,
Thou really art a clever beast;
A better one, take altogether,
Ne'er looked from out a hempen tether:
And oft, I hope, thou'lt ne'er be having
The plague of glander, gall, or spavin.
Full many a mile thou'st borne me, Gyp,
Without a stumble, shy, or slip;
Excepting, when that deep morass,
All overgrown with weeds and grass,
Betrayed us to a headlong tumble,
And made me feel a little humble;
But on we went, though well bespattered,
Thy knees uncut, my bones unshattered!

My gentle Gyp! I've seen thee prove
How fast a twelve hand brute can move;
I've seen thee keep the foremost place
And win the hard contested race;
I've seen thee lift as light a leg
As Tam O'Shanter's famous Meg,
Who galloped on right helter-skelter.
With goblins in her rear to pelt her;
And, closely pressed by evil kind,
Left her unhappy tail behind.
Stop, fair and softly, gentle Gyp —
I've jingled thus far in our trip;
But now we're nigh the well-known gate;
So steady — stand at ease — and wait —
While I restore to hiding-place
My paper and my pencil-case;
Stand steady — and another time
I'll sing thy praise in better rhyme.