again with the drums and tambourines."

And that was the true word, for though Herself had Mikeen rubbing him daily
with bear's-grease and hair-lotion he never grew the same grand fleece
again, and he'd stand about in the back-field, brooding for hours together,
the divilment clane gone out of his system; and if, mebbe, you'd draw the
stroke of an ash-plant across his ribs to hearten him, he'd only just look
at you sad-like and pass no remarks.

* * * * *

TOP-O'-THE-MORNING.

Top-o'-the-Morning's shoes are off;
He runs in the orchard, rough, all day;
Chasing the hens for a turn at the trough,
Fighting the cows for a place at the hay;
With a coat where the Wiltshire mud has dried,
With brambles caught in his mane and tail--
Top-o'-the-Morning, pearl and pride
Of the foremost flight of the White Horse Vale!

The master he carried is Somewhere in France
Leading a cavalry troop to-day,
Ready, if Fortune but give him the chance,
Ready as ever to show them the way,
Riding as straight to his new desire
As ever he rode to the line of old,
Facing his fences of blood and fire
With a brow of flint and a heart of gold.