Fly Leaves by Charles Stuart Calverley
page 12 of 78 (15%)
page 12 of 78 (15%)
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A blue bandana round his ears:
And thought how, posted near his door, His own green door on Camden Hill, Two bands at least, most likely more, Were mingling at their own sweet will Verdi with Vance. And at the thought He laugh'd again, and softly drew That Morning Herald that he'd bought Forth from his breast, and read it through. THE ARAB. On, on, my brown Arab, away, away! Thou hast trotted o'er many a mile to-day, And I trow right meagre hath been thy fare Since they roused thee at dawn from thy straw-piled lair, To tread with those echoless unshod feet Yon weltering flats in the noontide heat, Where no palmtree proffers a kindly shade And the eye never rests on a cool grass blade; And lank is thy flank, and thy frequent cough Oh! it goes to my heart--but away, friend, off! And yet, ah! what sculptor who saw thee stand, |
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