The Pony Driver’s Lament for Puir Geordie
Who, going lame, had to be shot before he could be drawn from the mine.
Puir Geordie! ye are deid an’ gane,
An’ free frae every ache an’ pain;
Frae tip o’ tail tae glossy mane
Ye were a beauty,
An’ when ye were upon this plane
Ye did yer duty.
Tae draw an’ kep, tae turn an’ back,
An’ lift a hutch when aff the track,
Ye werena feart yer limbs tae wrack
But strained wi’ micht:
A horse like ye for daein’ wark
Ne’er saw the licht.
Shame! that a beast like ye sae fine
Should e’er been pitten doon a mine,
Awa’ frae a’ the gled sunshine.
Ah! cruel fate,
They thocht tae bring ye up again,
Alas! owre late.
When ye gaed lame an’ couldna’ draw,
They killed ye wi’ a rifle ba’;
I couldna’ stan’ tae see ye fa’,
Sae turned tae rear
Tae hide my grief an’ wipe awa’
The startin’ tear.
An’ noo when in the grave ye lie
I think on ye wi’ mony a sigh;
Owre milk that’s spilt nae use tae cry,
Say tak’ yer rest,
But this I ken, as low ye lie,
Auld freens are best.