Ye whimsical people of London’s fair town Who one day put up, what the next day pull down; Full sixty-one years, have I stood in this place, And never, till now, met with any disgrace! What affront to crowned heads could you offer more bare, Than to pull down a king to make room for a mayor? The great Sobieski, on horse with long tail, I first represented, when set up for sale; A Turk, as you see, was placed under my feet, To prove o’er the Sultan my conquest compleat. Next, when against monarchy all were combined, I, for your Protector, old Noll, was designed. When the King was restored, you then, in a trice, Called me Charly the Second; and, by way of device, Said the old whiskered Turk had Oliver’s face, Though you know to be conquered he ne’er had the disgrace. Three such persons as these on one horse to ride, A Hero, Usurper, and King, all astride:— Such honours were mine; though now forced to retire, Perhaps my next change may be still something higher, From a fruitwoman’s market, I may leap to a spire. As the market is moved, I am forced to retreat; I could stay there no longer, with nothing to eat. Now the herbs and the greens are all carried away, I must go unto those who will find me in hay.” So the old horse, after serving varied purposes, and more than one “flitting,” finds literally “a green old age” in his “retreat” in the great horse county; a standing memorial, in stone, of a Lord Mayor’s “zeal” _not_ “tempered with knowledge.” But his memory is not allowed to perish, for in the neighbouring training stables a favourite name among the fleet racers is Sobieski.