 | Hunting Songs |  |
On the Landlord
OF THE WHITE HORSE INN, AT ALPNACH, IN SWITZERLAND.
I
The white horse by mine host has been brought to the post,Of his points and his pints he has reason to boast;
To the guests who approach him a welcome he snorts,
While they fill up his quarters and empty his quarts.
II
Neither weak in his Hocks, nor deficient in Beaune,In his Cote good condition though palpably shown,
There are folk, not a few, who still call him a screw;
If applied to cork-drawing, the term may be true.
47
III
Altogether reversing the old-fashion'd plan,Here the horse puts a bit in the mouth of the man;
And so long as not given to running away,
To the roadster who enters he never says “Neigh.”
IV
He sets him, when caught, straight to work at the Carte,With the cost of it saddles him ere he depart,
Gives him three feeds a day and the run of the bin,
And then makes him fork out for the good of the Inn!
V
They may call the grey mare at his side the best horse,But they both pull together for better for worse;
Through the heyday of life may they pleasantly pass,
Till by Death, that grim groom, they are turn'd out to grass.
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