THE SAILOR's MEDLEY, SONG

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

Next Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush, Men, horses, and dogs, are hard at his brush; O'er heath, hill, and moor, led by the sly prey, By scent or by view, cheats a long tedious day; Alike bred for joy in the field or the course, Always sure to come thro' by some staunch and fleet horse; And 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 wind gall'd, but yet with some blood; While knowing postillions his pedigree trace, Tell his dam won that sweep-stakes, his sire won that race: And what matches he'd won, to the ostlers count o'er, As they loiter'd their time by some hedg'd alehouse door, Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad, The high-melted racer's a hack on the road.

At length old and feeble, trudging early and late, Worn down by disease, he bends to his fate; From morning to evening, he tugs round a mill, Or draws sand till the sand of his hour glass stands still: And now cold and lifeless, exposed to view In the very same cart which he yesterday drew; Whilst a pitying crowd his sad relicks surrounds, The high-mettled racer is sold for the hounds.