The Mare and Her Colt

ONE accident another brings,
And thus misfortunes come in strings.
If carelessly your leg you strain,
Step but awry, 'tis bad again.
Youth, too presuming, vainly bold,
Think caution's only for the old;
So we observe them pains endure,
Sick, and oft dying immature.
        A COLT of spirit could not bear
The lessons of the matron Mare.
High was his blood; at any rate,
Six times in nine he won the plate;

But so much mettl'd, wanton, gay,
That all reproof was thrown away.
Much the good mother griev'd to see
A creature of his pedigree,
As he grew old, get worse and worse,
And be disgrac'd on ev'ry course;
For ev'ry time the news was told,
The beast was certain to be sold;
Which not the least enhanc'd his price,
But sunk it more than once or twice:
Yet, those that purchas'd, fondly thought
The Horse might still be broke and taught.
        Again he combats for the plate--
How many tremble for his fate!--
The bets run high that he shall beat,
And he keeps foremost all the heat.
Those oft gain least that look for most--
The Colt run short against a post,
He postrate fell; folks throng to gaze,
All reprobating headstrong ways.

With dislocated shoulder, force
Is us'd to drag him from the course;
While one less able, more sedate,
Ran steady on, and won the plate.
Many a horse that so had sped,
Had got a bullet thro' his head;
But this, by kindly care and zeal,
His headstrong folly liv'd to feel;
Sorely repenting, day by day,
He drag'd a little cart of hay,
And with it drag'd a life of pain,
Devoid of pleasure, honor, gain,
Exclaiming ev'ry hour--"With shame
"I've lost my happiness and fame."
        "Those who in follies persevere,
"Purchase experience very dear,"
The mother cry'd: "when youth reject
"Council, 'tis this that I expect;
"But as it is too late to shun
"An evil that's already done,

"And no retrieving of your fault,
"My son, then bear it, as you ought."

MORAL.

When Providence inflicteth pain,
We yet may sigh, if not complain.
When our own suffr'ings we create,
Repentance best befits our state.

Original fables by a Lady

Printed by W. Calvert, Shire Lane, Lincoln's Inn, for B. Crosby and Co. London, 1810

To your Royal Highness the following Fables are dedicated, with a wish that in an interval of leisure some transient amusement may be obtained.