We long for lush meadow-lands where we were foaled
And boast of great runs with the Belvoir and Quorn.
The pack-pony dreams of a primrosy combe,
A leisurely life in a governess-cart,
Plum-cake and a bottle-nosed gardener-groom;
The Clyde has a Wensleydale farm in his heart.
We whinny and frolic, light-headed with bliss,
Forgetting leg-weariness, terror and scars;
Ye ladies of England, oh, blow a soft kiss
To the hairy old horses come home from the wars.