Not even to your grave, but ride foriver;

Good luck to yees," and without more of talk

He pulled the forelock 'neath his tattered hat,

And started off; but plans of mice and men

Gang oft agley, again and yet again.

Full half a mile upon his homeward road

Poor Patrick toiled beneath his heavy load.

A hilltop gained, he stopped to rest, alas!

He laid his mare's egg on some treacherous grass;

When down the steep hillside it rolled away,

And at poor Patrick's call made no delay.

Gaining momentum, with a heavy thump,

It struck and split upon a hollow stump,

In which a rabbit lived with child and wife,

Frightened, the timid creature ran for life.

"Shtop, shtop my colt!" cried Patrick, as he ran

After his straying colt, but all in vain.

With ears erect poor Bunny faster fled

As "Shtop my colt!" in mournful, eager tones

Struck on those organs, till with fright half dead

He hid away among some grass and stones.

Here Patrick searched till rose the harvest moon,

Braying and whinnying till he was hoarse,

Hoping to lure the colt by this fond cheat;

"For won't the young thing want his mither soon,

And come to take a bit of something t'eat?"

But vain the tender accents of his call—

No colt responded from the broken wall;

And 'neath the twinkling stars he plodded on,

To tell how he had got and lost his horse.

"As swate a gray as iver eyes sat on,"

He said to Bridget and the children eight,

After thrice telling the whole story o'er,

The way he run it would be hard to bate;

So little, too, with jist a whisk o' tail,

Not a pin-feather on it as I could see,

For it was hatched out just sax weeks too soon!

An' such long ears were niver grown before

On any donkey in grane Ireland!

So little, too, you'd hold it in your hand;