THE OLD SOR’L HOSS
The old sor’l hoss limps up the lane
And whinners for his oats;
But he will never work again
’Cept as the milk he totes
To skimmin’-station down the road
To sort-o’-make-believe
He’s haulin’ of an honest load
And earnin’ his reprieve.
Sure that was paid for long ago
If twenty faithful years
Can make a critter’s master owe
Return for what he clears
By plow and reaper, laden rack,
And stump-an’-loggin’ bee,
Yet gives the beast-of-burden back
Oft scant humanity.
For when the old sor’l hoss’s jints
Grow stiff with work and age,
There’s many a man with musket pints
His death and keeps his wage;
But not this hoss with sorrel mane
And coat, which every morn
Comes limpin’ up the scrubby lane
And whinners for his corn.