Classic Poem

Bumpety, bumpety, bump.
The horses run down the green hill.
There's Fan the wild filly again at her tricks!
She rears at the fence and she knocks down the sticks
To get at the hay at the base of the ricks.
Bumpety, bumpety, bump.

Bumpety, bumpety, bump.
The horses run down the green hill.
They're all of them wanting a share of the hay,
The Roan and the Dapple, the Black and the Bay;
They follow the filly and gallop away.
Bumpety, bumpety, bump.

Bumpety, bumpety, bump.
The horses run up the green hill.
For old Farmer Brown has come out with his man
To halter the mischievous filly called Fan,
And sell her for gold at the Fair if he can.
Bumpety, bumpety, bump.

Bumpety, bumpety, bump.
The horses run up the green hill.
But where there were five there are now only four,
For Fan the wild filly will gallop no more;
She stands in the shafts at a gentleman's door.
Bumpety, bumpety, bump.