Market Day
With arms and legs at work and gentle stroke That urges switching tail nor mends his pace, On an old ribbed and weather beaten horse, The farmer goes jogtrotting to the fair. Both keep their pace that nothing can provoke Followed by brindled dog that snuffs the ground With urging bark and hurries at his heels. His hat slouched down, and great coat buttoned close Bellied like hooped keg, and chuffy face Red as the morning sun, he takes his round And talks of stock: and when his jobs are done And Dobbin's hay is eaten from the rack, He drinks success to corn in language hoarse, And claps old Dobbin's hide, and potters back.
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