"Gongs," said a third and gazed with looks intent At the full sofa, "are not adequate. There fits some dread, some heavy, punishment For one who sleeps with such a dreadful weight. Behold with me," he moaned, "a scene accurst. The springs are broken and the sofa's burst!" Too true! Too true! Beneath you on the floor Lay blent in ruin all the obscure things That were the sofa's strength, a scattered store Of tacks and battens and protruded springs. Through the rent ticking they had all been spilt, Mute proofs and mournful of your weight and guilt. And you? You slept as sweetly as a child, And when you woke you recked not of your shame, But babbled greetings, stretched yourself and smiled From that eviscerated sofa's frame, Which, flawless erst, was now one mighty flaw Through the addition of yourself as straw. THE OLD GREY MARE There's a line of rails on an upland green With a good take-off and a landing sound, Six fences grim as were ever seen, And it's there I would be with fox and hound. Oh, that was a country free and fair For the raking stride of my old grey mare! With her raking stride, and her head borne high, And her ears a-prick, and her heart a-flame, And the steady look of her deep brown eye, I warrant the grey mare knew the game: It was "Up to it, lass," and before I knew We were up and over, and on we flew. The rooks from the grass got up, and so, With a caw and flap, away they went; When the grey mare made up her mind to go At the tail of the bounds on a breast-high scent, The best of the startled rooks might fail To match her flight over post and rail. While some of the thrusters grew unnerved, And looked and longed for an open gate, And one crashed down and another swerved, She went for it always true and straight: She pounded the lot, for she made it good With never a touch of splintered wood. Full many a year has come and gone Since last she gathered her spring for me, And lifted me up, and so flew on Unchecked in a country fair and free. I've ridden a score since then, but ne'er Crossed one that could live with the old grey mare. AT PUTNEY When eight strong fellows are out to row, With a slip of a lad to guide them, I warrant they'll make the light ship go, Though the coach on the launch may chide them, With his "Six, get on to it! Five, you're late! Don't hurry the slides, and use your weight! You're bucketing, Bow; and, as to Four, The sight of his shoulders makes me sore!" But Stroke has steadied his fiery men, And the lift on the boat gets stronger; And the Coxswain suddenly shouts for "Ten! Reach out to it, longer, longer!" While the wind and the tide raced hand in hand The swing of the crew and the pace were grand; But now that the two meet face to face It's buffet and slam and a tortoise-pace.