Her paces are rather too fast, I suppose,

For she often comes down on her fine Roman nose,

And the way she takes fences makes hunting men stare,

For she backs through the gaps does my little brown mare.

She has curbs on her hocks and no hair on her knees;

She has splints and has spavins wherever you please?

Her neck, like a vulture's, is horribly bare,

But still she's a beauty, my little brown mare.

She owns an aversion to windmills and ricks,

When passing a waggon she lies down and kicks;

And the clothes of her groom she'll persistently tear—

But still she's no vice has my little brown mare.

When turned down to grass she oft strays out of bounds;

She always was famous for snapping at hounds;

And even the baby has learnt to beware

The too playful bite of my little brown mare.

She prances like mad and she jumps like a flea,

And her waltz to a brass band is something to see:

No circus had ever a horse, I declare,

That could go through the hoops like my little brown mare.

I mount her but seldom—in fact, to be plain,

Like the Frenchman, when hunting I "do not remain:"

Since I've only one neck it would hardly be fair

To risk it in riding my little brown mare!