Wordsworth’s Horse

Will Wordsworth was a steady man,
That lived near Ambleside,
And much he longed to have a horse,
Which he might easy ride.

It chanced one day a horse came by,
Of pure Arabian breed,
Gentle, though proud, and strong of limb;
It was a gallant steed!

Full many a noble rider bold
This gallant steed had borne;
And every one upon his brow
The laurel wreath had worn.

Those noble riders dead and gone,
And in the cold earth laid,
The gallant steed by Wordsworth’s door
Without an owner strayed.

No more ado; the steed is caught;
Upon him Wordsworth gets;
The generous courser paws and rears,
And ’gainst the bridle frets.

“He’s too high mettled,” Wordsworth says,
“And shakes me in my seat;
He must be balled, and drenched, and bled,
And get much less to eat.”

So balled, and drenched, and bled he was,
And put on lower diet;
And Wordsworth with delight observed
Him grow each day more quiet.

At first he took from him his oats,
And then he took his hay;
Until at last he fed him on
A single straw a day.

What happened next to this poor steed
There’s not a child but knows;
Death closed his eyes, as I my song,
And ended all his woes.

And on a stone, near Rydal Mount,
These words are plain to see,—
“Here lie the bones of that famed steed,
High-mettled Poesy.”