Classic Poem

T IME'S writing his changes on a' things, we see,
And sad anes his writing, auld War Horse, on thee.
How changed from the great steed that chafed at the rein,
With the fleet foot thy rider could hardly restrain!
Thy legs are sair shaughled; thy hoof, once of fire,
Must drag Jamie's cart through the mud and the mire.
Ah, where's thy proud neck which could scarce brook the rein?
Thy red " rolling eye, " and thy great arching mane?
Thy mane is a' tautit, and scrimpit's thy tail,
And the gall on thy shouther is no like to hale;
Thy hide is a' runkled, scarce covering thy banes,
And ye dreadfully hobble amang the whun stanes.
My heart's wae to see ye lash'd hard when ye reest,
And hear ye ca'd nocht but an " auld stubborn beast. "

And yet, my auld horse, thou hast lashed that same tail,
While dashing in madness amid the death-hail,
And neigh'd 'mid the thunder, the shout, and the smoke,
As ye swept like a thunderbolt to the death-shock.

Thae feet, noo sae spavint, hae aft chased the flying,
And trampled to pieces the deid and the dying;
And often I see ye ahobblin' come,
At the tout o' the town crier's auld crackit drum,
And cock up yer ears, and erect yer auld mane,
As if ye wad ae be a War Horse again.
This warrin' and fechtin', wi' a' its parade,
" Oh, the meal-pock's the end o't, " as auld Eddie said;
But lessons are lost baith on horses and men,
And why should I blame you when they winna men'?
Hear fallen Napoleon, in sorrow and woe,
Asking Marshal MacDonald, " Oh! where shall I go? "

And even 'mang horses there's great ups and downs,
As weel's amang monarchs wi' kingdoms and crowns.
Thy case is a hard ane, and I'm wae for thee,
Yet the auld sodger aften mair wretched we see.
Thy master is cruel, nor pities thy pains,
For he has a wife and some wee raggit weans:
To keep them in crowdie, and shed them frae snaw,
And buy him a drappy, taks a' ye can draw.

And yet my auld horse, tho' thou'rt sunk in distress,
I doutna ye whiles may hae glimpses o' bliss:
When Jamie's heart's ope'd wi' the blithe barley bree,
A great rip o' oats he will whiles fling to thee,
Saying, " Come up, Auld Sodger , and never say puir —
The auld cursin' Colonel ne'er offert ye mair.
Ye don't think I stole ye, man! that ugly scar
Ye got at Corunna wad tell wha's ye were. "

I doutna, auld horse, but ye try to explain
Your strange alter'd lot in some way o' your ain;
And tho' ye had reason to guide ye, I fear
'Twad be but sma' comfort ye'd fin' with it here;
For its puir consolation to man or to horse
To ken that there's thousands as bad, if no' worse;
For mony proud humans, my auld horse, like thee,
Hae to come down the hill, and draw coals ere they dee.