Ay, snow was quite another story, quite —
Snow on these fell-tops with a northeast wind
Behind it, blowing steadily with a bite

That made you feel that you were stark and skinned.

And those poor beasts and they just off the boat

A day or so, and hardly used to land

Still dizzy with the sea, their wits afloat.

When they first reached the dock, they scarce could stand,
They'd been so joggled. It's gey bad to cross,

After a long day's jolting in the train,
Thon Irish Channel, always pitch and toss -
And heads or tails, not much for them to gain!
And then the market, and the throng and noise
Of yapping dogs; and they stung mad with fear,
Welted with switches by those senseless boys
He'd like to dust their jackets! But 't was queer,

And snow, and

And no tobacco.

God, but it was blowing stiff!
Blest if he could tell

Where he had lost it — but, for half a whiff
He'd swap the very jacket off his back.
Not that he'd miss the cobweb of old shreds
That held the holes together. Thon Cheap-Jack
Who'd sold it him had said it was Lord Ted's,
And London cut. But Teddy had grown fat
Since he'd been made an alderman.... His bid?
And did the gentleman not want a hat

To go with it, a topper? If he did,

And driving dark it was nigh dark as night.
He'd almost think he must be getting old,

To feel the wind so. And long out of sight

The beasts had trotted. Well, what odds! The way

Ran straight for ten miles on, and they'd go straight.
They'd never heed a byroad. Many a day

He'd had to trudge on, trusting them to fate,
And always found them safe. They scamper fast,

But in the end a man could walk them down.

They're showy trotters, but they cannot last.
He'd race the fastest beast for half a crown
On a day's journey. Beasts were never made
For steady traveling: drive them twenty mile,
And they were done; while he was not afraid
To tackle twice that distance with a smile.

But not a day like this! He'd never felt

A wind with such an edge. 'T was like the blade Of the rasper in the pocket of his belt

He kept for easy shaving. In his trade

You'd oft to make your toilet under a dyke —
And he was always one for a clean chin,
And carried soap. - He'd never felt the like
That wind, it cut clean through him to the skin.
He might be mother-naked, walking bare,
For all the use his clothes were, with the snow
Half blinding him, and clagging to his hair,
And trickling down his spine. He'd like to know
What was the sense of pegging steadily,
Chilled to the marrow, after a daft herd
Of draggled beasts he could n't even see!

But that was him all over! Just a word,
A nod, a wink, the price of half-and-half
And he'd be setting out for God-knows-where,
With no more notion than a yearling calf
Where he would find himself when he got there.

And he'd been traveling hard on sixty year
The same old road, the same old giddy gait;
And he'd be walking, for a pint of beer,
Into his coffin, one day, soon or late
But not with such a tempest in his teeth,

Half blinded and half dothered, that he hoped!
He'd met a sight of weather on the heath,
But this beat all.

"T was worse than when he'd groped His way that evening down the Mallerstang

Though that just saved his senses and right there

He saw a lighted window he'd not seen,

Although he'd nearly staggered through its glare
Into a goodwife's kitchen, where she'd been

Baking hot griddlecakes upon the peat.

And he could taste them now, and feel the glow

Of steady, aching, tingly, drowsy heat,

As he sat there and let the caking snow

Melt off his boots, staining the sanded floor.

And that brown jug she took down from the shelf-
And every time he'd finished, fetching more,
And piping, 'Now reach up, and help yourself!'
She was a wonder, thon, the gay old wife-
But no such luck this journey. Things like that
Could hardly happen every day of life,
Or no one would be dying, but the fat
And oily undertakers, starved to death
For want of custom.
Be giving them a job.

That throttling wind.

. . Hell! but he would soon

...

It caught your breath,

And it was not yet noon;

And he'd be traveling through it until dark.

Dark! 'Twas already dark, and might be night

For all that he could see.

And not a spark

Of comfort for him! Just to strike a light,
And press the kindling shag down in the bowl,
Keeping the flame well shielded by his hand,
And puff, and puff! He'd give his very soul
For half a pipe. He could n't understand
How he had come to lose it. He'd the rum
Ay, that was safe enough; but it would keep