ORIGINAL POETRY. 
ECLOGUE III. 
EVENING; OR, THE HORSE. 
Now evening’s dews begin to fall, 
And clouds obscure the sky ; 
The setting sun in glory sinks,— 
Then, to the field I hie ; 
And there on Jack I loudly call, 
He looks, and sees me, as he thinks, 
With eyes as keen as any lynx: 
He sees the treasure in my hand— 
Potatoes, grain, or bread ; 
And neighs with pleasure, as he goes 
(Tossing his high-raised head) 
To reach the place he sees me stand. 
No obstacles his way oppose ; 
He comes—and ’gainst me rubs his nose ; 
He every coaxing art employs, 
To get his favourite root ;— 
Potatoes, which he loves as much 
As children can love fruit ! 
For this he every method tries; 
Indeed, sometimes his airs are such, 
That humble bread he scarce can touch ; 
For Jack was bred in Erin’s isle, 
And loves potatoes well ; 
Like all green Erin’s sons, the same, 
Though here he’s forced to dwell ; 
And oftentimes he makes us smile 
To see him thus his birth preclaim, 
And plainly tell from whence he came. 
