For somebody laid against the gray,
   And somebody made a pile;
And Brown says he can make farming pay,
   And he smiles a simple smile. 
‘Them sharps from town were riled,’ says Brown;
   ’But I can’t see why—­can you? 
For I said quite fair as I knew that mare,
   And I proved my words was true.’

THE GROOM’S STORY

Ten mile in twenty minutes!  ’E done it, sir.  That’s true. 
The big bay ’orse in the further stall—­the one wot’s next to you. 
I’ve seen some better ’orses; I’ve seldom seen a wuss,
But ’e ‘olds the bloomin’ record, an’ that’s good enough for us.

We knew as it wa’s in ’im.  ’E’s thoroughbred, three part,
We bought ’im for to race ’im, but we found ’e ’ad no ’eart;
For ‘e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin’ dignified,
It seemed a kind o’ liberty to drive ’im or to ride;

For ‘e never seemed a-thinkin’ of what ’e ’ad to do,
But ’is thoughts was set on ‘igher things, admirin’ of the view. 
’E looked a puffeck pictur, and a pictur ’e would stay,
’E wouldn’t even switch ’is tail to drive the flies away.

And yet we knew ’twas in ’im, we knew as ’e could fly;
But what we couldn’t git at was ’ow to make ’im try. 
We’d almost turned the job up, until at last one day
We got the last yard out of ‘im in a most amazin’ way.

It was all along o’ master; which master ’as the name
Of a reg’lar true blue sportman, an’ always acts the same;
But we all ’as weaker moments, which master ’e ’ad one,
An’ ’e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun.

I seed it in the stable yard—­it fairly turned me sick —
A greasy, wheezy engine as can neither buck nor kick. 
You’ve a screw to drive it forrard, and a screw to make it stop,
For it was foaled in a smithy stove an’ bred in a blacksmith shop.

It didn’t want no stable, it didn’t ask no groom,
It didn’t need no nothin’ but a bit o’ standin’ room. 
Just fill it up with paraffin an’ it would go all day,
Which the same should be agin the law if I could ’ave my way.

Well, master took ‘is motor-car, an’ moted ‘ere an’ there,
A frightenin’ the ‘orses an’ a poisonin’ the air. 
‘E wore a bloomin’ yachtin’ cap, but Lor’! wot did ’e know,
Excep’ that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go?

An’ then one day it wouldn’t go.  ’E screwed and screwed again, But somethin’ jammed, an’ there ’e stuck in the mud of a country lane.  It ’urt ’is pride most cruel, but what was ’e to do?  So at last ’e bade me fetch a ’orse to pull the motor through.

This was the ’orse we fetched ‘im; an’ when we reached the car,
We braced ’im tight and proper to the middle of the bar,
And buckled up ’is traces and lashed them to each side,
While ’e ’eld ’is ’ead so ‘aughtily, an’ looked most dignified.