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THE MODERN STEED.
In olden time my gran'dad's horse
Stood patient at the gate, And sometimes at a post, in town,
Throughout the day, he'd wait; For gran'dad brooked no telling when
'Twas time for him to go; And though 'twas said that he was fast,
Times were when he was slow.
For politics, he had a turn—
Not as a candidate— And when he argued on that line
The waiter waited late; And he believed his faithful horse
Adopted all his creed, And felt content to wait, all night,
Bereft of drink and feed.
And though gran'dad was passing kind,
'Twas plain upon its face That often he forgot his horse
And all the equine race. Full many times—though but a boy—
I felt for that old bay, Who shivered many a stormy night,
And. sweltered many a day.