In the little town, now
Is dust and smell and crowd
Of hot angry people,
Talking very loud.
With jostling and swearing.
And clattering of feet.
And scarce a breath of air to breathe
In all the narrow street.

But through the country roads, now
The horses hurry down.
Bringing all the farmer folk
Briskly into town ;—
Red wheels and yellow wheels,
High wheels and low.
Proudly and merrily.
The scampering horses go.

And every ear is forward pricked.
And every head held high.
And nothing either side the road
Escapes the wary eye
Of cart-horse with plunging feet.
And little horse with light,—
Up hill and down hill.
Prancing with delight.

Down all the lanes you see them come.
And on the broad highway,
Driving in processional.
At noon on market-day.
Oh you with your basket
May go bustling into town.
But I'll be underneath the hedge.
Staring like a clown.
To see the farmers' carts asway,
And every horse on holiday.
Scampering into town.