  Oh! give me back my “salted” steed, They said, he would not die, They said of stable I’d no need, But told a dreadful lie. I let him out one moonlight night— Upon the grass he fed— And in the morning, cruel sight! My salted steed was DEAD. I bought him with a good “Bewijs,” And thought to get my geld— So wrote a letter in a trice, And sent it through the veld; But when the man who sold him came And opened his inside— He said the “paapjes” were to blame, And that was how he died! I’ve had a dozen steeds or more, Since that eventful day; But no more “salted” ones, be sure— That sort of thing don’t pay, For if a charger’s worth a sou, He’s worth his feed, I swear: And should he live, I laugh, don’t you? And should he die, don’t care. A. Brodrick. Transvaal. |
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