| Notes |
Text: Men don't ride, my dear friend, to the red scene of slaughter, / Just as if they were taking old Dobbin to water; /
You seat in the saddle is loose and ungainly, / Turn your knees in, and don't to your stirrups trust mainly; / Like an ox-goad
don't carry that good piece of steel, stir, / Nor back into the next horse's chest when you wheel sir! / I know from the country
you're fresh, but with training / There will soon be no trace of the rustic remaining; / If your heart's in the cause, all
the rest will come easy, / But in hopes you'll improve. / If you do, I incline, sir, / To have you -- next year-- for my true
Valentine, sir.
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