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For the hand of my rider felt strange on my bit,
He breathed once or twice like one partially choked,
And sway’d in his seat, then I knew he was hit;–
He must have bled fast, for my withers were soak’d,

And scarcely an inch of my housing was dry;
I slacken’d my speed, yet I never quite stopp’d,
Ere he patted my neck, said, “Old fellow, good-bye!”
And dropp’d off me gently, and lay where he dropp’d!

Ah, me! after all, they may call us dumb creatures–
I tried hard to neigh, but the sobs took my breath,
Yet I guess’d gazing down at those still, quiet features,
He was never more happy in life than in death.

* * * * *

Two years back, at Aldershot, Elrington mentioned
My name to our colonel one field-day. He said,
“‘Count’, ‘Steeltrap’, and ‘Challenger’ ought to be pension’d;”
“Count” died the same week, and now “Steeltrap” is dead.

That morning our colonel was riding “Theresa”,
The filly by “Teddington” out of “Mistake”;
His girls, pretty Alice and fair-haired Louisa,
Were there on the ponies he purchased from Blake.

I remember he pointed me out to his daughters,
Said he, “In this troop I may fairly take pride,
But I’ve none left like him in my officers’ quarters,
Whose life-blood the mane of old ‘Challenger’ dyed.”

Where are they? the war-steeds who shared in our glory,
The “Lanercost” colt, and the “Acrobat” mare,
And the Irish division, “Kate Kearney” and “Rory”,
And rushing “Roscommon”, and eager “Kildare”,

And “Freeny”, a favourite once with my master,
And “Warlock”, a sluggard, but honest and true,
And “Tancred”, as honest as “Warlock”, but faster,
And “Blacklock”, and “Birdlime”, and “Molly Carew”?–

All vanish’d, what wonder! twelve summers have pass’d
Since then, and my comrade lies buried this day,–
Old “Steeltrap”, the kicker,–and now I’m the last
Of the chargers who shared in that glorious fray.

* * * * *

Come, “Harlequin”, keep your nose out of my manger,
You’ll get your allowance, my boy, and no more;
Snort! “Silvertail”, snort! when you’ve seen as much danger
As I have, you won’t mind the rats in the straw.

* * * * *

Our gallant old colonel came limping and halting,
The day before yesterday, into my stall;
Oh! light to the saddle I’ve once seen him vaulting,
In full marching order, steel broadsword and all.

And now his left leg than his right is made shorter
Three inches, he stoops, and his chest is unsound;
He spoke to me gently, and patted my quarter,
I laid my ears back, and look’d playfully round.

For that word kindly meant, that caress kindly given,
I thank’d him, though dumb, but my cheerfulness fled;
More sadness I drew from the face of the living
Than years back I did from the face of the dead.

For the dead face, upturn’d, tranquil, joyous, and fearless,
Look’d straight from green sod to blue fathomless sky
With a smile; but the living face, gloomy and tearless,
And haggard and harass’d, look’d down with a sigh.

Did he think on the first time he kiss’d Lady Mary?
On the morning he wing’d Horace Greville the beau?
On the winner he steer’d in the grand military?
On the charge that he headed twelve long years ago?

Did he think on each fresh year, of fresh grief the herald?
On lids that are sunken, and locks that are grey?
On Alice, who bolted with Brian Fitzgerald?
On Rupert, his first-born, dishonour’d by “play”?

On Louey, his darling, who sleeps ‘neath the cypress,
That shades her and one whose last breath gave her life?
I saw those strong fingers hard over each eye press–
Oh! the dead rest in peace when the quick toil in strife!