[Pg 27]

My clown is going, and the Tricksey Three

Who juggle and do turns, have split with me;

And now, to-day, my wife's too ill to dance,

And all my music ask for an advance.

There must be poison in a man's distress

That makes him mad and people like him less.

Well, men are men. But what I cannot bear

Is my poor Bet, my piebald Talking Mare,

Gone curby in her hocks from standing up.

That's the last drop that overfills the cup.[Pg 28]

[Pg 28]

My Bet's been like a Christian friend for years.

King Cole:

Now courage, friend, no good can come from tears.

I know a treatment for a curby hock

Good both for inward sprain or outward knock.

Here's the receipt; it's sure as flowers in spring;

A certain cure, the Ointment of the King.

That cures your mare; your troubles

 Prev. P 12/38 next