This is my poor old horse, that has carried me many a mile,
Over hedges, over ditches, over high-barred gate and stile;
But now he has grown old, and his nature does decay,
He's forced to snap at the shortest grass that grows along the way;
Poor old horse! Poor old horse!

His coat it was once of the linsey-woolsey fine,
His mane it grew at length, and his body it did shine,
His pretty little shoulders that were so plump and round,
They're both worn out and aged; I'm afraid he is not sound;
Poor old horse! Poor old horse!

 

His keep it was once of the best of corn and hay,
That ever grew in cornfields, or in the meadows gay;
But now into the open fields he is obliged to go,
To stand all sorts of weather, either rain, or frost, or snow;
Poor old horse! Poor old horse!

His hide unto the tanner I will so freely give;
His body to the dogs; I would rather him die than live:
So we'll hang him, whip him, strip him, and a-hunting let him go;
He's neither fit to ride upon, or in the team to draw;
Poor old horse! Poor old horse!