Ballad—in Liberty Hall

See the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are begun The confusion but hear!—I'll bet you fir—done, done; Ten thousand strange murmurs resound far and near, Lords, hawkers, and jockies, assail the tir'd ear: While with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest, Pamper'd, prancing, and pleas'd, his head touching his breast Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate, The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate.

Now renard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush, Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at this brush; They run him at length, and they have him at bay, And by scent and by view cheat a long tedious way: While, alike born for sports of the field and the course, Always sure to come thorough, a staunch and fleet horse; When fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath, The high-mettled racer is in at the death.

Grown aged, used up, and turn'd out of the stud. Lame, spavin'd, and windgall'd, but yet with some blood; While knowing postillions his pedigree trace, Tell his dam won the sweepsteakes, his sire gain'd that race; And what matches he won to the ostlers count o'er, As they loiter their time at some hedge ale house door, While the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad, The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road.

Till at last, having labour'd, drudg'd early and late, Bow'd down by degrees, he bends on his fate, Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill, Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass stands still: And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the view, In the very same cart which he yesterday drew, While a pitying crowd his sad relicks surrounds, The high-mettled racer is sold for the hounds.