109

I am an old decriped horse
Some call me Ball the pacer
I've went as fast thro' time that's past
As any other racer
I've lived till now and sweat my brow
By pulling plow and harrow
With worn out feet I have been beat
In one inch of the marrow,
I always did or tried to do
what was directed
But in a dread and rarely fed
I look'd like one dejected
Till now behold grown poor and old
By man and beast neglected
I soon must make a buzzard steak
From life itself ejected
I now compose this funeral dirge
Made just for memory wielding
That man may say on a future day
"Here died a noble gelding,"
"Amongst the sedge near to the hedge,"
"His bones lay long a bleaching,"
"After the fowls and midnirht owls"
"Performed his fun'ral preaching."