What battles have been fought and won, what names to fame been given,
What mighty shout has put to rout the thunder notes of heaven,
When, coming in his pride and scorn
The old horse won in days agone!
In days to come,
Upon that shore where Memory’s twilight skies hang o’er,
Oft will the old horse race as he has never raced before!
His silent ghost will come to post while spectral grandstands listen
To the noiseless beat of his phantom feet—as the silver moonbeams glisten
On the gray-haired horseman who tells it o’er—