Classic Poem

Once I was a young horse all in my youthful prime,
My mane hung o'er my shoulders and my coat he did so shine;
But now I'm getting old, my features do decay,
My master he looks down on me and his words I heard him say:

Poor old horse, poor old horse,
Poor old horse, let him die.

My master used to ride me at every chase all round,
My legs they were so nimble I could trip over the ground,
But now I'm getting old and scarcely able to crawl,
My master he looks down on me, saying I am no use at all.

Once all in the stable I used good corn and hay
That grows in yonder fields and likewise meadows so gay.
But now I'm getting old I scarcely get hay at all,
For I'm obliged to nibble the short grass that grows against the wall.

Once all in the stable I was kept so fine and warm
To keep my tender limbs from all aching pain and harm,
But now I'm getting old to the fields I'm obliged to go,
Let it hail, rain or sunshine, or the winds blow high or low.

My hide unto the huntsman so freely will I give,
My body to the hounds, for I'd rather die than live,
Then lay my legs so low that have run so many a mile,
Over the hedges, over ditches, over turnpike gates and stiles.

Poor old horse, poor old horse,
Poor old horse, let him die.