Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DOBBIN, THE BUTTERWOMAN'S HORSE, by FRANCIS FAWKES


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DOBBIN, THE BUTTERWOMAN'S HORSE, by                    
First Line: The death of faithful dobbin I deplore
Last Line: Dame jolt's brown horse, old dobbin, is no more.
Subject(s): Animals; Death; Horses; Hunting; Dead, The; Hunters


THE death of faithful Dobbin I deplore;
Dame Jolt's brown horse, old Dobbin, is no more.
The cruel Fates have snapped 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 though this horse to stand had ne'er a leg,
He never dropped a goose, or broke an egg.
Ye maids of Cray your buttered 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 foundered, 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.

Skulk, Reynard, skulk in the securest grounds,
Now Dobbin hunts thee in the shape of hounds.
Late sure but slow he marched as foot could fall,
Sure to march slow whene'er he marched 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,
Through 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 buttered rolls deplore,
Dame Jolt's brown horse, old Dobbin, is no more.





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