The Tired Ploughman, Steeped In Luxurious Heat, By And By
Falls Asleep And Dreams Sweetly Until His Chilblains Or The
Snapping fire awakes him, and he pulls himself up and goes
forth yawning to give his team their last feed,
His lantern
throwing a feeble gleam on the snow as he makes his way to the
stable. Having completed his task, he pats the sides of those
he loves best by way of good-night, and leaves them to their
fragrant meal. And this kindly action on his part suggests
one of the best passages of the poem. Even old well-fed
Dobbin occasionally rebels against his slavery, and released
from his chains will lift his clumsy hoofs and kick,
"disdainful of the dirty wheel." Short-sighted Dobbin!
Thy chains were freedom, and thy toils repose,
Could the poor post-horse tell thee all his woes;
Show thee his bleeding shoulders, and unfold
The dreadful anguish he endures for gold;
Hired at each call of business, lust, or rage,
That prompts the traveller on from stage to stage.
Still on his strength depends their boasted speed;
For them his limbs grow weak, his bare ribs bleed;
And though he groaning quickens at command,
Their extra shilling in the rider's hand
Becomes his bitter scourge . . . .
The description, too long to quote, which follows of the
tortures inflicted on the post-horse a century ago, is almost
incredible to us, and we flatter ourselves that such things
would not be tolerated now.
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