 | Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds |  |
33
POMPEY'S COMPLAINT.
Spretched out on a dunghill, all covered with snow,
While round him blew many a pitiless blast,
His breath short and painful, his pulse beating low,
Poor honest old Pompeylay breathing his last.
While round him blew many a pitiless blast,
His breath short and painful, his pulse beating low,
Poor honest old Pompeylay breathing his last.
Bleak whistled the wind, and loud bellowed the storm,
Cold pelted upon him the half frozen rain:
And amid the convulsions that shattered his form,
Thus honest old Pompey was heard to complain:
Cold pelted upon him the half frozen rain:
And amid the convulsions that shattered his form,
Thus honest old Pompey was heard to complain:
“Full many a winter I've weather'd the blast,
And plunged for my master through brier and bog;
And in my old age, when my vigour is past,
'Tis cruel, I think, to forsake his poor dog.
And plunged for my master through brier and bog;
And in my old age, when my vigour is past,
'Tis cruel, I think, to forsake his poor dog.
“I've guarded his dwelling by day and by night,
Impatient the roost-robbing gipsy to spy:
And put the stout rogue and his party to flight
With only the look of my terrible eye.
Impatient the roost-robbing gipsy to spy:
And put the stout rogue and his party to flight
With only the look of my terrible eye.
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“On the heath and the mountain I've followed his flocks,
And keptthem secure while heslept in the sun;
Defended them safe from the bloodthirsty fox,
And asked but a bone when my labour was done.
And keptthem secure while heslept in the sun;
Defended them safe from the bloodthirsty fox,
And asked but a bone when my labour was done.
“When he worked in the corn-field, with brawny hot back,
I watch'd by his waistcoat beneath the tall tree;
And woe to the robber that dared to attack
The charge that my master committed to me.
I watch'd by his waistcoat beneath the tall tree;
And woe to the robber that dared to attack
The charge that my master committed to me.
“When jogging from market with bags full of gold,
No moon to enliven his perilous way,
Nor star twinkling bright through the atmosphere cold,
I spied the pale robber, and kept him at bay.
No moon to enliven his perilous way,
Nor star twinkling bright through the atmosphere cold,
I spied the pale robber, and kept him at bay.
“One night, when, with cold overcome and opprest,
He sunk by the wayside, benumb'd in the snow,
I stretched my warm bosom along on his breast,
And moaned, to let kind-hearted passengers know.
He sunk by the wayside, benumb'd in the snow,
I stretched my warm bosom along on his breast,
And moaned, to let kind-hearted passengers know.
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“Yes, long have I served him with courage and zeal,
Till my shaking old bones are grown brittle and dry;
And 'tis an unkindness I bitterly feel,
To be turned out of doors, on a dunghill to die.
Till my shaking old bones are grown brittle and dry;
And 'tis an unkindness I bitterly feel,
To be turned out of doors, on a dunghill to die.
“I crawled to the kitchen with pitiful moan,
And showed my poor ribs, that were cutting my skin,
And looked at my master, and begged for a bone,
But he said I was dirty, and must not come in.
And showed my poor ribs, that were cutting my skin,
And looked at my master, and begged for a bone,
But he said I was dirty, and must not come in.
“But 'tis the last struggle, my sorrows are o'er;
'Tis death's clammy hand that is glazing my eye:
The keen gripe of hunger shall pinch me no more,
Nor hard-hearted master be deaf to my cry.’
'Tis death's clammy hand that is glazing my eye:
The keen gripe of hunger shall pinch me no more,
Nor hard-hearted master be deaf to my cry.’
| Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds | |