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The warren was sacred, yet he and I dared
To career through its heath till the rabbits were scared :
The gamekeeper threaten'd me Pinch should be shot;
But the threat was by both of us always forgot.

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The linen, half-bleach'd, must be rinsed o’er again ;
And our footsteps in mud were "remarkably" plain.
The tulips were crush'd, to the gardener's dismay;
And when last we were seen we were bending that way. *

But we weathered all gales, and the years sped away,
Till his “bonny black” hide was fast turning to gray;
When accents were heard most alarmingly sad,
Proclaiming that Pincher, my Pincher, was mad.

It was true: his fixed doom was no longer a joke;
He that moment must die: my young heart was nigh broke.
I saw the sure fowling-piece moved from its rest,
And the sob of keen anguish burst forth unsuppress’d.

A shot,-a faint howl,--and old Pincher was dead.
How I wept while the gardener prepared his last bed :
Something fell on his spade too, wet, sparkling, and clear;
Though he said 'twas a dew-drop, I know 'twas a tear.

Eliza Cook.

* A stanza omitted. # The piece has been made to end here, but there are five more stanzas.

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ONCE I lay in stable, a hunter well and warm,

I had the best of shelter from cold and rain and harm; But now in open meadow, a hedge I'm glad to find, To shield my sides from tempest, from driving sleet and wind.

Poor old horse, let him die !

My shoulders once were sturdy, were glossy, smooth, and

round, But now, alas! they're rotten, I'm not accounted sound. As I have grown so aged, my teeth gone to decay, My master frowns upon me; I often hear him say,

“Poor old horse, let him die ! ”

A groom upon me waited, on straw I snugly lay,
When fields were full of flowers, the air was sweet with hay;
But now there's no good feeding prepared for me at all,
I'm forced to munch the nettles upon the kennel wall,

Poor old horse, let him die !

My shoes and skin, the huntsman that covets them shall

have, My flesh and bones the hounds, sir ! I very freely give, I've followed them full often, aye! many a score of miles, O'er hedges, walls, and ditches, nor blinked at gates and stiles.

Poor old horse, let him die !

Ye gentlemen of England, ye sportsmen good and bold,
All ye that love a hunter, remember him when old;

O put him in your stable, and make the old boy warm,
And visit him and pat him, and keep him out of harm,
Poor old horse, till he die.

Old Song:

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MY beautiful ! my beautiful : that standest meekly by

With thy proudly-arched and glossy neck, and dark

and fiery eye; Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed : I may not mount on thee again, thou’rt sold, my Arab

steed!

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Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy

wind, The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind. The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his gold; Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell !-thou’rt sold, my steed,

thou’rt sold.

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Farewell ! Those free, untirèd limbs full many a mile

must roam, To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's

home. Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed

prepare; The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care,

The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with

thee Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont

to be; Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home

again.

Yes, thou must go! The wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun

and sky, Thy master's home—from all of these my exiled one must

fly. Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become

less feet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to

meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright; Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy

speed, Then must I, starting, wake to feel — thou'rt sold, my Arab

steed!

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting

side;

And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant

pain, Till careless eyes which rest on thee may count each start

ing vein.

Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be, Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed ; so gentle, yet so free; And yet if haply, when thou’rt gone, my lonely heart should

yearn, Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee

to return ?

Return !-alas, my Arab steed! what shall thy master do, When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanished from his

view ? When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the

gathering tears Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage,

appears?

Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne

me on ; And, sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly

think, “It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him

drink !”

When last I saw him drink !-away! the fevered dream is

o'er ! I could not live a day and know that we should meet no

more! They tempted me, my beautiful ! for hunger's power is

strongThey tempted me, my beautiful ! but I have loved too long.

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