On every hoof old Boxer had,
The best that fed upon hay.
But he would scorn,
As one well born,
To be accounted not worth a thorn.
He’d toss his head and proudly neigh
Unless he were leading horse.
“The chapel choir for a practice came,
It was upon Monday night,
To the glory of God an anthem sing
In harmony and might.
But each would lead,
And each decreed