He walked home with meself and Mikeen as meek as a young gerrl.
Herself came runnin' out, all fluttery, to look at him.
"Ah, but that's not _my_ mascot," says she.
"It is, Marm," says I; and I swore to it by the whole Calendar--Mikeen too.
"Bah! how disgustin'. Take it to the cow-house," says she, and stepped indoors without another word.
We led the billy away, him hangin' his head for shame at his nakedness.
"Ye'll do no more mascottin' avic," says I to him. "Sorra luck you would bring to a blind beggar-man the way you are now--you'll never step along 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'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.
Do the hoofs of his horses wake a dream Of a trampling crowd at the covert-side, Of a lead on the grass and a glinting stream And Top-o'-the-Morning shortening stride? Does the triumph leap to his shining eyes As the wind of the vale on his cheek blows cold, And the buffeting big brown shoulders rise To his light heel's touch and his light hand's hold?
When the swords are sheathed and the strife is done, And the cry of hounds is a call to men; When the straight-necked Wiltshire foxes run And the first flight rides on the grass again; May Top-o'-the-Morning, sleek of hide, Shod, and tidy of mane and tail, Light, and fit for a man to ride, Lead them once more in the White Horse Vale!