The Tale of a Pony
By Bret Harte (Francis)
Name of my heroine, simply Rose;
Surname, tolerable only in prose;
Habitat, Paris, that is where
She resided for change of air;
Aetat twenty; complexion fair;
Rich, good looking, and debonnaire;
Smarter than Jersey lightning. There!
Thats her photograph, done with care.
In Paris, whatever they do besides,
Every lady in full dress rides!
Moire antiques you never meet
Sweeping the filth of a dirty street
But every womans claim to ton
Depends upon
The team she drives, whether phaeton,
Landau, or britzka. Hence its plain
That Rose, who was of her toilet vain,
Should have a team that ought to be
Equal to any in all Paris!
Bring forth the horse! The commissaire
Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair
Leading an equipage rich and rare.
Why doth that lovely lady stare?
Why? The tail of the off gray mare
Is bobbed, by all thats good and fair!
Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear,
Scarcely showing as much back hair
As Tam OShanters Meg, and there,
Lord knows, shed little enough to spare.
That stare and frown the Frenchman knew,
But did as well-bred Frenchmen do:
Raised his shoulders above his crown,
Joined his thumbs with the fingers down,
And said, Ah, Heaven! then, Mademoiselle,
Delay one minute, and all is well!
He went returned; by what good chance
These things are managed so well in France
I cannot say, but he made the sale,
And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing tail.
All that is false in this world below
Betrays itself in a love of show;
Indignant Nature hides her lash
In the purple-black of a dyed mustache;
The shallowest fop will trip in French,
The would-be critic will misquote Trench;
In short, youre always sure to detect
A sham in the things folks most affect;
Bean-pods are noisiest when dry,
And you always wink with your weakest eye:
And thats the reason the old gray mare
Forever had her tail in the air,
With flourishes beyond compare,
Though every whisk
Incurred the risk
Of leaving that sensitive region bare.
She did some things that you couldnt but feel
She wouldnt have done had her tail been real.
Champs Elysees: time, past five.
There go the carriages, look alive!
Everything that man can drive,
Or his inventive skill contrive,
Yankee buggy or English chay,
Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coupe,
A desobligeante quite bulky
(French idea of a Yankee sulky);
Band in the distance playing a march,
Footman standing stiff as starch;
Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch-
Bishops, and there together range
Sous-lieutenants and cent-gardes (strange
Way these soldier-chaps make change),
Mixed with black-eyed Polish dames,
With unpronounceable awful names;
Laces tremble and ribbons flout,
Coachmen wrangle and gendarmes shout
Bless us! what is the row about?
Ah! here comes Rosys new turnout!
Smart! You bet your life twas that!
Nifty! (short for magnificat).
Mulberry panels, heraldic spread,
Ebony wheels picked out with red,
And two gray mares that were thoroughbred:
No wonder that every dandys head
Was turned by the turnout, and twas said
That Caskowhisky (friend of the Czar),
A very good whip (as Russians are),
Was tied to Rosys triumphal car,
Entranced, the reader will understand,
By ribbons that graced her head and hand.
Alas! the hour you think would crown
Your highest wishes should let you down!
Or Fate should turn, by your own mischance,
Your victors car to an ambulance,
From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance!
(And these things happen, even in France.)
And so Miss Rose, as she trotted by,
The cynosure of every eye,
Saw to her horror the off mare shy,
Flourish her tail so exceedingly high
That, disregarding the closest tie,
And without giving a reason why,
She flung that tail so free and frisky
Off in the face of Caskowhisky.
Excuses, blushes, smiles: in fine,
End of the ponys tail, and mine!