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OLD DOBBIN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Here's a song for old dobbin, whose temper and worth




Here'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 snow-flake 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.
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.






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