The SUPERANNUATED HORSE to his MASTER, Who had sentenced him to die at the End of the Summer, on Account of…

And must thou fix my doom, sweet master, say, And wilt thou kill thy servant old and poor? A little longer let me live, I pray, A little longer hobble round by door.

For much it glads me to behold this place, And house within this hospitable shed; It glads me more to see my master's face, And linger near the spot where I was bred.

For, ah! to think of what we both enjoy'd In my life's prime, ere I was old and poor, When from the jocund morn to eve employ'd, My gracious master on this back I bore.

Thrice told ten years have danc'd on down along, Since first these way-worn limbs to thee I gave, Sweet-smiling years! when both of us were young, The kindest master, and the happiest slave.

Ah, years sweet-smiling! now for ever flown! Ten years, thrice told, alas, ate but a day! Yet, as together we are aged grown, Together let us wear our age away.

For still, the times behind are dear to thought, And rapture mark'd each minute as it flew; To the light heart all-changing seasons brought Pains that were soft, or pleasures that were new.

Ah! call to mind, how oft near Scarning's stream My steps were bent to yonder Muse-trod grove, There, she who lov'd thee was thy tender theme, And I the chosen messenger of love.

On the gale's pinion, with a lover's care, E'en with the speed of thought did I not go— Explore the cottage of thy absent fair, And eas'd thy sick'ning bosom of its woe?

And when that doubting heart still felt alarm, Throbbing alternate with its hope and fear, Did I not bear thee safely to her arms, Assure thy faith and dry up ev'ry tear?

And, ah! forget not when the fever's power, Rag'd sore, how swift I sought the zephyr's wing, To cool thy pulses in the fragrant bower, And bathe thy temples in the clearest spring.

Friend to thy love, and health, and not a soe E'en to the Muse who led thee on to fame; Yes, e'en thy lyre to me some charms may owe, And fancy kindles into brighter flame.

And hast thou fix'd my doom, sweet master, say— And wilt thou kill thy servant, old and poor? A little longer let me live I pray, A little longer hobble round thy door.

Nor could'st thou bear to see thy servant bleed, Tho' weeping pity has decreed his fate; Yet, ah! in vain, thy heart for life shall plead, If Nature has deny'd a longer date.

Alas! I feel 'tis nature dooms my death, Ah me! I feel 'tis Pity gives the blow— Yet ere it falls, ah, Nature! take my breath, And my kind master shall no sorrow know.

Ere the last morn of my allotted life, A softer fate shall end me old and poor, May timely save me from th' uplifted knife, And gently stretch me at my master's door.