An offer I had from the man on the bay — 

 " Four hundred I'll give for the flea-bitten grey. 

 Four hundred and gladly — four hundred in gold." 

 " No, thank you," I said, " he shall never be sold." 



The banker, a Croesus who hunted from town, 



Rode quietly up on his blood-looking brown, 



Said, " A cheque you shall have, and shall fill as you will." 



But I would not be tempted, and stuck to him still. 



The strangers, who only came down for the day, 

 Said, " Who is the chap on the flea-bitten grey ? " 

 Twelve seasons he carried me well in the van ; 

 They swear by him still, all the hunt, to a man. 



And, after, I left him to finish his days 



In the orchard at home ; where I turned him to graze. 



I buried him later ; and planted a gorse 



Right over the grave of the gallant old horse. 



Hard by there's a snug and a beautiful earth, 

 Where you see the cubs playing each year at their birth. 

 And oft in the autumn, when hunting comes round. 

 The wave of the gorse lets you know they have found. 



When the music that always falls sweet on the ear. 

 Comes to drive away sorrow, and drive away fear ; 

 As I listen and hear it — the glad " Gone-away " — 

 I think of him always, my flea-bitten grey. 



