BACK TO:PETTING ZOO

THE OLD HORSE'S COMPLAINT
by  Francis S. Smith

I once had a master who thought me a prize,
The gem of his stable, the light of his eyes:
He called me pet names when I fed from his hand,
And gave me a stall which was costly and grand;
He watched me with tenderness, made soft my bed-
No draught was allowed to blow over my head;
No ill could assail me, no danger come nigh,
And my hay was the sweetest that money could buy.

My satin-like hide was by every one praised;
I'd a clean set of limbs, and like stars my eyes blazed;
My quarters were broad, and my shoulders were strong,
And my tail, mane and foretop were silky and long.
I was a true type of the thoroughbred horse,
And when in a race I flew over the course,
No urging was needed, no spur my flank tore-
My pluck always carried me first to the score.

But time sapped my strength and my triumphs were o'er;
With the young and the fleet I could struggle no more,
And one day my master remarked, with a sigh,
"The old horse is in the way now, and must die!
He is old and decrepit and eats too much hay.
So put on his halter and lead him away:
Make sure of your work, take him off to the plains,
Then pull out your pistol and blow out his brains!"

I am ready and willing to yield my last breath,
But still it seems hard he should order my death.
If I had the power I'd work for him still-
But enough! it is over- Now hear my last will:
Let my hide into leather for harness be made,
Give my bones to the turner for use in his trade,
Then lay the old carcass, at set of the sun,
'Neath the soil on the track where my triumphs were won.


This poem it out of an old book , by B. Pitcher, a blacksmith.  The
book was printed in 1880 in Chicago, by the German Book and News Company.
Original copyright is 1879.