ORIGINAL POETRY.

Tuapeka Times, Volume III, Issue 176, 22 June 1871, Page 7

ORIGINAL POET RY.

MOSE3 AND AARON.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO IITEBARY NAGS. on a time — I need not tell you when - ■iWo ancient heroes (horses, mind, not inou), Who long had dangers shared by flood and field, To which, though old, they were not known to yield, Fell into conversation by the way, And having " done " the topics of the day, They changed the subject to another head, And this is what the aged savants said :—: — Moses. Pray, brother Aaron, do not walk too fast, For I've been lame, you know, for some time past From ringbone, which my hoofs too plainly show, And consequently I at best am slow. But tell me, Aaron, how it fares with you, I see you're thin, but that is nothing new. You never were a fat old nag like me — But then waste paper never did agree With your digestion as it did with mine ; And as for oats- don't laugh— l know you pine For just one glorious feed— but let that pass. Come, take a nibble at the tender grass ; And as you nibble, tell me all the news, Perhaps 'twill help to drive away the blues ; For in your absence I've been dull and cross, Upon the honour of an aged horse. I really have not felt so sad for years . You know I'm old, so pray excuse my tears, Aaron. Ah ! brother Moses, when I look at you, Who take your ease, and get no work to do, I cannot help but wish that I as well Were lame with rine-bone, for I want a spell. You truly say that I have thinner grown : Newspaper life soon fetches horseflesh down, Unless waste paper one can eat with zest ; / never could, although I've tried my best. Since I became a literal y nag (Or, I should say, a printer's devil's fag), All have I borne, and still have to bear The ills to which poor equine flesh is heir. I sometimes think and sigh, and think again That this will end with paper on the brain. At any rate, I wish I had the chance Of clearing out to any where— but France. Now ridden here, now there, o'er hill and dale, Through hissing bogs, and splashed from head to tail, I cany all the staff —a motley crew— The editor and printer's devil too ; And oh ! the misery that I endure When out upon a money-hunting tour ! Tis then I feel that I am growing old, And oft I wish I never had been foaled. When journeys prove successful, then, of couise, My lider pets me— calls me "good old horse," And many other tender things beside ; If unsuccessful, then he tins my hide, And calls me " lazy (adjective) old screw," And says, " Who'd ride a scrubby weed like you !" As tho' 'twere fault of miue that folks are shy, And "not at home" when he is passing by. Bet so it iB : when people cannot pay, Or put him oft" with " call auotliei Uay,"' Tis 'gainst poor me that all his spite must go ; And that I feel it my old ribs can show. What wonder theu, that I at last am grown A wreccbed mass of skin and grief and bone ! Moses. Alas ! poor Aaron ! all you say is true ; I. too, have felt the ills described by you ; But since my birth- *ome thirty ye.ns ago — Of all the changes I've been doomed 10 know, The greatest seems to be, on looking b.ick, When I, alas ! became a printet's hack. But now through ring-bone I'm not worlh a fig, So I ci.joy the otiuvi cum dig. Lawrence, June 18, 1871.

Jupiter.