Classic Poem

The death of faithful Dobbin I deplore;
Dame Jolt's brown horse, old Dobbin, is no more.
The cruel Fates have snapt his vital thread,
And gammer Jolt bewails old Dobbin dead.
From stony Cudham down to watery Cray,
This honest horse brought butter every day,
Fresh butter meet to mix with nicest rolls,
And sometimes eggs, and sometimes geese and fowls,
And tho' this horse to stand had ne'er a leg,
He never dropt a goose, or broke an egg.
Ye maids of Cray your butter'd rolls deplore,
Dame Jolt's brown horse, old Dobbin, is no more.
Oft did the squire, that keeps the great hall-house,
Invite the willing Vicar to a goose;
For goose could make his kindred Muse aspire
From earth to air, from water to the fire;
But now, alas! his towering spirit's fled,
His Muse is founder'd, for poor Dobbin's dead.
Last Friday was a luckless day, I wot,
For Friday last lean Dobbin went to pot;
No drinks could cherish, no prescriptions save;
In C——n's hounds he found a living grave:
Weep all, and all (except sad dogs) deplore
Dame's Jolt's brown horse, old Dobbin is no more.

Sculk, reynard, sculk in the securest grounds,
Now Dobbin hunts thee in the shape of hounds:
Late sure but slow he march'd as foot could fall,
Sure to march slow whene'er he march'd at all;
Now fleeter than the pinions of the wind,
He leaves the huntsman, and the hunt behind,
Pursues thee o'er the hills, and down the steep,
Thro' the rough copse, wide woods, and waters deep,
Along th' unbounded plain, along the lea,
But has no pullet, and no goose for thee.
Ye dogs, ye foxes, howl for Dobbin dead,
Nor thou, O Muse, disdain the tear to shed;
Ye maids of Cray your butter'd rolls deplore,
Dame Jolt's brown horse, old Dobbin is no more.