Edith, with cheek against the window,
Is sobbing out her grief;
Gold-Locks is in a sad condition
Of pocket-handkerchief.
And Teddy at his play is sniffing,
His little nose all red!
Is Tony sick? Is pussy stolen?
Is the canary dead?
Else why this universal crying?—
Weepingly I am told,
With many a look of indignation,
"Brown Billy has been sold!"
And why? No one can tell the reason;
And yet I chance to know,
It was—ah, wicked little pony!—
Because he acted so.
Sometimes the phaeton all too heavy
Would grow for him to draw;
You'd think his feeble strength must perish
Under another straw.
Sometimes as light as any feather
He rolled its dainty wheels,
Humming and whirring like a spindle
After his flying heels.
And, worse than that, he had a fashion
Of rearing in the air;
And what became of load or driver
He did not know nor care.
Yet, without least alarm, the children
Would laugh at him, and say,
"Do see dear, cunning, old Brown Billy:
How well he likes to play!"
And bits of apple, lumps of sugar,
From little hands were given,
With fond pet names, and soft caresses,
And sometimes kisses even.
Brown Billy, but for your wild frolics
We might have had you yet;
And then these three sweet doleful faces
With tears would not be wet.