My Muse! now growing greasy-heeled and lame:
She never was too sprightly as a filly;
But now, God bless my stars! her fires are tame—
They wouldn’t even boil a blanky billy,
Or grill a steak, or mull a glass of stout,
Garnished around with oysters—or without.
Get up, old girl! and give yourself a try—
A snort, a cough, a whistle, or a whinny—
Some folk are waiting now outside to buy,
If you’d display the spirit of a jenny!—