 | Poems (1865) |  |
XVI. THE STAGE COACH.
Come—now, let us take a journey,
That costs neither trouble nor care;
What if where we are going we know not,
Nor if we shall ever get there—
What matter? The road is so pleasant,
And we pay not a heavy fare!
That costs neither trouble nor care;
What if where we are going we know not,
Nor if we shall ever get there—
What matter? The road is so pleasant,
And we pay not a heavy fare!
What matter, Oh, what matter
Should even the coach upset,
And all the passengers scatter?
Such chances are often met.
Our driver might be more steady,
But we know that the best of all
Riders are those that are ready
And willing to meet with a fall.
Should even the coach upset,
And all the passengers scatter?
Such chances are often met.
Our driver might be more steady,
But we know that the best of all
Riders are those that are ready
And willing to meet with a fall.
Come quick, now, and take your places;
The guard is blowing his horn;
The horses are in the traces,
They have had their feed of corn.
London—Paris—wherever it pleases,
You may ride in our coach of state;
We have no luggage to tease us,
And we carry but little weight.
The guard is blowing his horn;
The horses are in the traces,
They have had their feed of corn.
London—Paris—wherever it pleases,
You may ride in our coach of state;
We have no luggage to tease us,
And we carry but little weight.
Dora Greenwell.
| Poems (1865) | |