Poor Victims of a misbegotten hate!
Your patient service and unselfish toil
Too often ended in a mound of soil
Encrimsoned by libation poured to Fate.
Though you were massive, with slow-
And gentle eyes aghast at such turmoil
With scalding wrath of Acheron in spate,
Or stepped it lightly as the startled deer,
With pointed ears alert, and nervous snort
At every gun’s nerve-
When all your tingling fibre shrank with fear:
You both obeyed your rider’s voice and knee,
As frightened, as superbly brave as he.