Market Day
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ith arms and legs at work and gentle strokeThat urges switching tail nor mends his pace,On an old ribbed and weather beaten horse,The farmer goes jogtrotting to the fair.Both keep their pace that nothing can provokeFollowed by brindled dog that snuffs the groundWith urging bark and hurries at his heels.His hat slouched down, and great coat buttoned closeBellied like hooped keg, and chuffy faceRed as the morning sun, he takes his roundAnd talks of stock: and when his jobs are doneAnd Dobbin's hay is eaten from the rack,He drinks success to corn in language hoarse,And claps old Dobbin's hide, and potters back.
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