The Centaur

The Centaur led a double life:
Two natures in perpetual strife
He had, that never could agree
On what the bill-of-fare should be;
For when the man-half set his heart
On taking dinner à la carte,
The horse was sure to cast his vote
Unswervingly for table d'OAT.
A pretty sort of life to lead;
The horse in time went off his feed,
The hungry man was nigh demented,
When one day--OATMEAL was invented!

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

The Sphinx

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Dog

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

To Liberty

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Foreign Kittens

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

English

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The Centaurs

Up came the young Centaur-colts from the plains they were fathered in,
Curious, awkward, afraid.
Burrs on their hocks and their tails, they were branded and gathered in
Mobs and run up to the yard to be made.

Starting and shying at straws, with sidlings and plungings,
Buckings and whirlings and bolts;
Greener than grass, but full-ripe for their bridling and lungings,
Up to the yards and to Chiron they bustled the colts...

First the light web and the cavesson; then the linked keys
To jingle and turn on the tongue. Then, with cocked ears,
The hours of watching and envy, while comrades at ease
Passaged and backed, making naught of these terrible gears.

Next, over-pride and its price at the low-seeming fence
Too oft and too easily taken, the world-beheld fall!<...

Rudyard

On A Picture Of A Black Centaur By Edmund Dulac

Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood,
Even where horrible green parrots call and swing.
My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.
I knew that horse-play, knew it for a murderous thing.
What wholesome sun has ripened is wholesome food to eat,
And that alone; yet I, being driven half insane
Because of some green wing, gathered old mummy wheat
In the mad abstract dark and ground it grain by grain
And after baked it slowly in an oven; but now
I bring full-flavoured wine out of a barrel found
Where seven Ephesian topers slept and never knew
When Alexander's empire passed, they slept so sound.
Stretch out your limbs and sleep a long Saturnian sleep;
I have loved you better than my soul for all my words,
And there is none so fit to keep a watch and...

William Butler Yeats

Pegasus

The ancients made no end of fuss
About a horse named Pegasus,
A famous flyer of his time,
Who often soared to heights sublime,
When backed by some poetic chap
For the Parnassus Handicap.
Alas for fame! The other day
I saw an ancient "one-hoss shay"
Stop at the Mont de Piété,
And, lo! alighting from the same,
A bard, whom I forbear to name.
Noting the poor beast's rusty hide
(The horse, I mean), methought I spied
What once were wings. Incredulous,
I cried, "Can this be Pegasus!"

Oliver Herford

Council Of Horses.

        A steed with mutiny inspired
        The stud which grazed the mead, and fired
        A colt, whose eyes then blazing fire,
        Stood forth and thus expressed his ire:

        "How abject is the equine race,
        Condemned to slavery's disgrace!
        Consider, friends, the deep reproach -
        Harnessed to drag the gilded coach,
        To drag the plough, to trot the road,
        To groan beneath the pack-horse load!
        Whom do we serve? - a two-legged man,
        Of feeble frame, of visage wan.
        What! must our noble jaws submit
        To champ and foam their galling bit?
        He back and spur me? Let him first
        Control the lion - tiger's thirst:
        I here avow that I disdain
        His might, th...

John Gay

How The Old Horse Won The Bet

Dedicated By A Contributor To The Collegian, 1830, To The Editors Of The Harvard Advocate, 1876.

'T was on the famous trotting-ground,
The betting men were gathered round
From far and near; the "cracks" were there
Whose deeds the sporting prints declare
The swift g. m., Old Hiram's nag,
The fleet s. h., Dan Pfeiffer's brag,
With these a third - and who is he
That stands beside his fast b. g.?
Budd Doble, whose catarrhal name
So fills the nasal trump of fame.
There too stood many a noted steed
Of Messenger and Morgan breed;
Green horses also, not a few;
Unknown as yet what they could do;
And all the hacks that know so well
The scourgings of the Sunday swell.

Blue are the skies of opening day;
The bordering turf is green with May;
The ...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

A Noontide Lyric

The dinner-bell, the dinner-bell
Is ringing loud and clear;
Through hill and plain, through street and lane,
It echoes far and near;
From curtained hall and whitewashed stall,
Wherever men can hide,
Like bursting waves from ocean caves,
They float upon the tide.

I smell the smell of roasted meat!
I hear the hissing fry
The beggars know where they can go,
But where, oh where shall I?
At twelve o'clock men took my hand,
At two they only stare,
And eye me with a fearful look,
As if I were a bear!

The poet lays his laurels down,
And hastens to his greens;
The happy tailor quits his goose,
To riot on his beans;
The weary cobbler snaps his thread,
The printer leaves his pi;
His very devil hath a home,
But what, oh what ...

Oliver Wendell Holmes