When Adam named in days of old,
The bird and beast and every fold,
He gave to each its proper class,
And well defined the gentle ass,
His ears made long, inclined to flap,
Down his shoulders is nature's strap.
Thus marked, he went o'er the world wide,
To help us all by easy stride.
Docile, humble, of low degree,
Destined ever a slave to be,
He took his place when time began,
And since has been the friend of man.
From Eastern climes he made his way,
Where his'try marks his longest stay,
And to the West, o'er ocean's main,
With Adam's sons he swelled the train;
But man, like ever-shifting fame,
Resolved to change the donkey's name.
Away on mountain, far from throng,
The sound he made, man called a song.
So, moved by notes, most deem scary,
Some dub him now the new canary.
From early morn to close of day,
He sings his song the same old way.
His voice is harsh, a choking roar,
And fills the mind with thoughts of gore.
His notes, — one short, with two quite long,
Contain the burden of his song.
At midnight hour when nature rests,
His crooning bray breaks out the best,
And o'er the crags and passes bleak,
His voice resounds in dismal shriek,
And some will cry when they are airy,
That " He's a bird — a true canary. "
The burro is his Spanish name
And bearing it he rose to fame;
For up and down 'neath driver's wrath,
He climbs with load on narrow path,
Where slipp'ry trails and icy slate
Precipitate him to his fate.
Plodding along at break of day,
So, year by year he makes his way,
Loaded heavy in mountain dust,
In winter's snows, and clouds that burst.
Keeping his pace in sun and rain,
He creeps along a mountain train.
In hunger, they say, oft he can,
When all is gone, consume a can.
Bridles, saddles and boxes too;
He'll also eat a soleless shoe,
Flour and coffee, bacon and ham,
He looks upon, as we do jam.
Butter and cheese left in the shade,
Will disappear on his parade.
Trousers and shirts, in time of need,
Make him a meal for sharpest greed.
But of the things beyond his skill
Are iron hammer, miner's drill.
Around the camp he always goes
Striking at dogs and kindred foes,
Braying aloud with great delight
When hay abounds and grain's in sight;
Sometimes limping from saddle sore
Dug in his back by sacks of ore.
Taking ills like a patient man,
He spends his time the best he can,
Careless of wounds and battered feet,
Stumbling along the stony street;
Or, standing meek, with load or pack,
Eats the hay from his partner's back.
When flowers bloom and days are fine,
The burro keeps in better line.
When roads are good, and grass is long,
With stomach full he pegs along;
And o'er the hills and craggy walls
He carries nymphs from Vassar's halls.
'Neath Harvard's sports, or men from Yale,
The same old wag is in his tail.
The schoolmarms, too, both young and old,
Ride him up through the mountains bold.
His faithfulness should prompt us so
To treat him well where e'er we go.
A friend to all on dreary pass,
Most useful is the modest ass.
The bird and beast and every fold,
He gave to each its proper class,
And well defined the gentle ass,
His ears made long, inclined to flap,
Down his shoulders is nature's strap.
Thus marked, he went o'er the world wide,
To help us all by easy stride.
Docile, humble, of low degree,
Destined ever a slave to be,
He took his place when time began,
And since has been the friend of man.
From Eastern climes he made his way,
Where his'try marks his longest stay,
And to the West, o'er ocean's main,
With Adam's sons he swelled the train;
But man, like ever-shifting fame,
Resolved to change the donkey's name.
Away on mountain, far from throng,
The sound he made, man called a song.
So, moved by notes, most deem scary,
Some dub him now the new canary.
From early morn to close of day,
He sings his song the same old way.
His voice is harsh, a choking roar,
And fills the mind with thoughts of gore.
His notes, — one short, with two quite long,
Contain the burden of his song.
At midnight hour when nature rests,
His crooning bray breaks out the best,
And o'er the crags and passes bleak,
His voice resounds in dismal shriek,
And some will cry when they are airy,
That " He's a bird — a true canary. "
The burro is his Spanish name
And bearing it he rose to fame;
For up and down 'neath driver's wrath,
He climbs with load on narrow path,
Where slipp'ry trails and icy slate
Precipitate him to his fate.
Plodding along at break of day,
So, year by year he makes his way,
Loaded heavy in mountain dust,
In winter's snows, and clouds that burst.
Keeping his pace in sun and rain,
He creeps along a mountain train.
In hunger, they say, oft he can,
When all is gone, consume a can.
Bridles, saddles and boxes too;
He'll also eat a soleless shoe,
Flour and coffee, bacon and ham,
He looks upon, as we do jam.
Butter and cheese left in the shade,
Will disappear on his parade.
Trousers and shirts, in time of need,
Make him a meal for sharpest greed.
But of the things beyond his skill
Are iron hammer, miner's drill.
Around the camp he always goes
Striking at dogs and kindred foes,
Braying aloud with great delight
When hay abounds and grain's in sight;
Sometimes limping from saddle sore
Dug in his back by sacks of ore.
Taking ills like a patient man,
He spends his time the best he can,
Careless of wounds and battered feet,
Stumbling along the stony street;
Or, standing meek, with load or pack,
Eats the hay from his partner's back.
When flowers bloom and days are fine,
The burro keeps in better line.
When roads are good, and grass is long,
With stomach full he pegs along;
And o'er the hills and craggy walls
He carries nymphs from Vassar's halls.
'Neath Harvard's sports, or men from Yale,
The same old wag is in his tail.
The schoolmarms, too, both young and old,
Ride him up through the mountains bold.
His faithfulness should prompt us so
To treat him well where e'er we go.
A friend to all on dreary pass,
Most useful is the modest ass.