The Hack Mule

Full fed and antic,
A Hack Mule pushed
With speed so frantic
Forth from her stable,
That her rider
Scarcely was able
With rein to guide her.
Half our journey
Not long will bide her
In such a race.
But the false jade
Now slacks her pace.
What trouble now?
Go on! Perhaps
The spur will do.
What, no? Then taps
Of this light rod
Or harder raps
From pointed goad.
Both are, I find,
In vain bestowed.
How! out of wind!
With ready heels
She kicks behind,
And bites and squeals.
What a curvette!
She jumps and reels.
You devil's pet,
With hand and foot
We'll try you yet.
Upon her belly
Down she flounders,--
Here sprawling flat.
A murrain foul
Seize on your soul!
Amen to that!

* * * * *

The Mule, that work begins
With such capers,
Is not the mule for me;
And, whene'er I see
That any author vapors
Too much of his intent,--
At once, I say, "Beware!
Good friend, pray have a care
Of this mule's predicament."