THE OLD FAVORITE. 115 



The bright light in his eye spoke of courage and pride, 



While his shimmering coat told the world he was fit, 



And the net-work of veins could be seen through his 



hide, 



As he stamped with impatience and strained on the 

 bit. 



When I tapped him he wheeled and dashed off for a 



block, 



On his frictionless gait, once so rapid and round, 

 Then side on I could see the slight flex of his hock 

 And the low stride in front barely clearing the 

 ground. 



It was Guy, the bad actor, the trotting machine, 



Of the old sulky days when Maud S. held the throne, 



The black horse that taught Sanders to humor the 



queen, 

 But he's dead and he sleeps in the meadow alone. 



There's no mark on his grave, but his name will retain 

 All the honors he earned while the records are kept, 



As his antics caused thousands from Texas to Maine 

 To protest at his scoring and cheer when he stepped. 



