COME all ye bold pedestrians, who amble o'er the lea, Ye Sunday-walking wanderers, if any still there be, Who seek that haunt delectable and shy secluded spot Where motor-cars are never seen, and bicycles are not -- Attend while I expound to you what joys beyond compare Belong to him who voyages on Shanks His Mare. Though fast and far the Cyclist go, serenely speeding on (I've met him in his sinful pride as far as Headington), Yet all his skill and all his speed, it nothing shall avail If e'er he chance to ride upon a rusty piece of nail. Of panics and anxieties his mind he ne'er can rid: Whene'er he meets a muddy road, he 's nearly sure to skid: For Nature and Philosophy no thought he has to spare -- As has the man who travels still on Shanks His Mare. Behold the proud Equestrian who sits upon a horse: The scorcher's is a luckless plight, but his is far the worse: The pleasures of volition free are not for him to know, -- He goes where'er his quadruped intends him for to go: And sometimes it 's too leisurely, which makes the public scoff, While sometimes it 's in playful mood, and then he tumbles off -- And still he is (as Horace sings) accompanied by Care, Which ain't the case with him who rides on Shanks His Mare. The man who drives a Motor-car imperils life and limb: I cannot see the smallest good in emulating him: In fact if I'd an enemy whom ne'er I could abide, It is within a motor-car I'd send him out to ride. It leaves an oily smell behind: 'tis prone (I'm told) to burst: Don't offer me a seat in @3that@1 -- I'll see you farther first: For O that gallant motor-man, whose speed outstrips the hare, 'Tis slow he comes and sadly back on Shanks His Mare! O yet there 's many a grassy path and many a lonely way By woodland green and silent stream and hamlets old and gray, -- In Cotswold hills and Chiltern woods is many a still retreat Which no one knows but only those who walk upon their feet. With addled wits the student sits, confusing of his brain, And some they ride and some they row (and some they go by train), But give to me mine ancient boots, and far from here we'll fare, Across the lonely country-side, on Shanks His Mare! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHILD ALONE: 4. PICTURE-BOOKS IN WINTER by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON PHILOCTETES: PHILOCTETES CALLS FOR DEATH by AESCHYLUS HOW DOES THE RAIN COME? by CHARLES ROLLIN BALLARD A THOUGHT FOR MOTHER'S DAY by MAMIE COLLINS BARRY THE HOLLYHOCKS by CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS MY HIDING PLACE AND ME by BARBARA BROOKS BIXLEY SECTION GANG: MORNING by NORMAN BOLKER LINES TO MRS. KEMBLE, IN THE CHARACTER OF YARICO by ROBERT BURNS |