A well-fed horse drove into town, behind a span of ancient men, whose
knees were sore from falling down and striving to get up again; their
poor old ribs were bare of meat, and they had sores upon their necks;
there wasn't, on the village street, a tougher looking pair of wrecks.
And so they shambled up the street, a spectre harnessed with a ghost;
the horse descended from his seat, and left them standing by a post.
And there they stood through half the night, and shook and shivered in
the tugs, the while their master, in delight, was shaking dice with
other plugs. And there they died, of grief and cold--no more they'll
haul the heavy plow; their master said, when he was told: "They cost
blamed little, anyhow!"