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whare'er thou gaed.

the sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle

might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;

but sax scotch mile, thou try't their mettle,

an' gar't them whaizle:

nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle

o' saugh or hazel.

thou was a noble fittie-lan',

as e'er in tug or tow was drawn!

aft thee an' i, in aught hours' gaun,

in guid march-weather,

hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',

for days thegither.

thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit;

but thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,

an' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,

wi' pith an' power;

till sprittie knowes wad rair't an' riskit

an' slypet owre.

when frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep,

an' threaten'd labour back to keep,

i gied thy cog a wee bit heap

aboon the timmer:

i ken'd my maggie wad na sleep,

for that, or simmer.

in cart or car thou never reestit;

the steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;

thou never lap, an' sten't, and breastit,

then stood to blaw;

but just thy step a wee thing hastit,

thou snoov't awa.

my pleugh is now thy bairn-time a',

four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;

forbye sax mae i've sell't awa,

that thou hast nurst:

they drew me thretteen pund an' twa,

the vera warst.

mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,

an' wi' the weary warl' fought!

an' mony an anxious day, i thought

we wad be beat!

yet here to crazy age we're brought,

wi' something yet.

an' think na', my auld trusty servan',

that now perhaps thou's less deservin,

an' thy auld days may end in starvin;

for my last fow,

a heapit stimpart, i'll reserve ane

laid by for you.

we've worn to crazy years thegither;

we'll toyte about wi' ane anither;

wi' tentie care i'll flit thy tether

to some hain'd rig,

whare ye may nobly rax your leather,

wi' sma' fatigue.