He stood with his head in the mulberry-tree,
And he spoke out aloud in his fond reverie;
At the sound of the word the good mare made a push,
And down went the priest in the wild-briar bush.
He remembered too late, on his thorny green bed,
Much that well may be thought cannot wisely be said.

T. L. Peacock.

H

OLD DOBBIN.

ERE's a song for old Dobbin whose temper and worth

Are too rare to be spurned 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 turned 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 rolled
Into those of stern winter, all dreary and cold;
But the north wind might whistle, the snowflake 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 laughed at by all, We filled him a manger and gave him a stall.

Old Dobbin

117

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 christened him Dobbin, and called 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 appeared 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 returned 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 played 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 t'was free from a speck,

We kissed his brown muzzle, and hugged his thick neck;

Oh! we prized him like life, and a heart-breaking sob Ever burst when they threatened to sell our dear Dob.

He stood to the collar, and tugged 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 staunch 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 decked 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 eyes filling with tears! Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start When memory plays an old tune on the heart.

The Dog of Reflection

119

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.

Eliza Cook.

THE DOG OF REFLECTION.

DOG growing thinner, for want of a dinner,
Once purloined a joint from a tray;

"How happy I am, with this shoulder of lamb!"

Thought the cur, as he trotted away.

But the way that he took lay just over a brook,
Which he found it was needful to cross,

So, without more ado, he plunged in to go through,
Not dreaming of danger or loss.

But what should appear, in this rivulet clear,
As he thought upon coolest reflection,

But a cur like himself, who with ill-gotten pelf,
Had run off in that very direction.

Thought the dog, à propos! but that instant let go
(As he snatched at this same water-spaniel),
The piece he possessed-so, with hunger distressed,
He slowly walked home to his kennel.

Hence, when we are needy, don't let us be greedy
(Excuse me this line of digression),
Lest in snatching at all, like the dog we let fall
The good that we have in possession.

NO, THANK YOU, TOM.

Jeffreys Taylor.

HEY met, when they were girl and boy,

Τ Going to school one day,

And, "Won't you take my peg-top, dear?" Was all that he could say.

She bit her little pinafore,

Close to his side she came;

She whispered, "No! no, thank you, Tom,"
But took it all the same.

They met one day, the self-same way,
When ten swift years had flown;
He said, "I've nothing but my heart,
But that is yours alone.

And won't you take my heart?" he said,
And called her by her name;

She blushed, and said, "No, thank you, Tom,"
But took it all the same.

And twenty, thirty, forty years

Have brought them care and joy;

She has the little peg-top still

He gave her when a boy.

"I've had no wealth, sweet wife," said he; "I've never brought you fame;

She whispers, "No! no, thank you, Tom,
You've loved me all the same."

Fred. E. Weatherly.