And voices—why, Lor’ love you, it’s more than I can ’elp, It just comes kind of natural to know each whine an’ yelp; You might take them twenty couple where you will and let ’em run, An’ I’d listen by the coverside and name ’em one by one. I say it’s kind of natural, for since I was a brat I never cared for readin’ books, or fancy things like that; But give me ’ounds and ’orses an’ I was quite content, An’ I loved to ear ’em talkin’ and to wonder what they meant. And when the ’ydrophoby came five year ago next May, When Nailer was be’avin’ in a most owdacious way, I fixed ’im so’s ’e couldn’t bite, my ’ands on neck an’ back, An’ I ’eaved ’im from the kennels, and they say I saved the pack. An’ when the Master ’eard of it, ’e up an’ says, says ’e, ‘If that chap were a soldier man, they’d give ’im the V.C.’ Which is some kind a’ medal what they give to soldier men; An’ Master said if I were such I would ’a’ got it then. Parson brought ’is Bible and come to read to me; ‘’Ave what you like, there’s everythink within this Book,’ says ’e. Says I, ‘They’ve left the ’orses out!’ Says ’e, ‘You are mistook;’ An’ ’e up an’ read a ’eap of things about them from the Book. And some of it amazin’ fine; although I’m fit to swear No ’orse would ever say ‘Ah, ah!’ same as they said it there. Per’aps it was an ’Ebrew ’orse the chap ’ad in his mind, But I never ’eard an English ’orse say nothin’ of the kind. Parson is a good ’un. I’ve known ’im from a lad; ’Twas me as taught ’im ridin’, an’ ’e rides uncommon bad; And he says—But ’ark an’ listen! There’s an ’orn! I ’eard it blow; Pull the blind from off the winder! Prop me up, and ’old me so. They’re drawin’ the black ’anger, just aside the Squire’s grounds. ’Ark and listen! ’Ark and listen! There’s the yappin’ of the ’ounds: There’s Fanny and Beltinker, and I ’ear old Boxer call; You see I wasn’t boastin’ when I said I knew ’em all. Let me sit an’ ’old the bedrail! Now I see ’em as they pass: There’s Squire upon the Midland mare, a good ’un on the grass; But this is closish country, and you wants a clever ’orse When ’alf the time you’re in the woods an’ ’alf among the gorse. ’Ark to Jack a’ollering—a-bleatin’ like a lamb. You wouldn’t think it now, perhaps, to see the thing I am; But there was a time the ladies used to linger at the meet Just to ’ear me callin’ in the woods: my callin’ was so sweet. I see the crossroads corner, with the field awaitin’ there, There’s Purcell on ’is piebald ’orse, an’ Doctor on the mare, And the Master on ’is iron grey; she isn’t much to look, But I seed ’er do clean twenty foot across the ’eathly brook.