Francis Duggan Horse Poems

Of the reaper's scythe he does not feel aware
The old dressage horse in the paddock over there
His kind owner calls to see him every day
To make sure his water trough is full and feed him oats and hay.
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There's no such thing as gallant loser and there's no glory in defeat
And coming first is all that matter and victory is always sweet
For the winning horse and jockey there's a mighty hip hooray
And the jockey he is smiling victory has made his day.
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The morning has a heavy winter chill
And dark rain clouds move over Clara hill
And the old man says that the rain will bucket down
As he stands holding his horse in the Square at Millstreet Town.
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The tired and aged horse in the paddock his better days they are long gone
Though he is enjoying his old age and for as long as he can he'll live on
In his prime he was used for rounding up cattle he could run as fast as a hare
But now his fastest is a slow trot the poor old bay seems the worst for wear.
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The disks in my back they are aching 'tis not very pleasant back pain
From long years of physical labouring even financially I did not gain
Suppose I am like many others one more ageing crock of the Town
I'm lucky that I am a human for were I born a horse I'd be put down.
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Only the best horse, colt, gelding, mare or filly ever wins the Cox Plate
And only the winner they will celebrate
First place by a nose is as good as a mile
The connections of the winner and the winning punters can laugh, cheer and smile
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The weather it was cold and windy the rain steadily drifted down
From the gray clouds above old Duhallow on the March Horse Fair in Millstreet Town
Of the calendar Spring the first day though Winter was still in the air
The sun seldom does shine in Millstreet on March the first at the horse fair
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Deciduous leaves of late August not yet turning brown
At the September horse fair in old Millstreet Town
The cool nip of late Summer in the morning air
But it is quite a nice enough day for the fair
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The last true wild horses of Planet Earth of them it has been said
Of stocky build with dark brown mane and coloured brown to red
Przewalski's horse it is their name in the wild state now quite rare
In the Gobi desert years ago they were seen everywhere.
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A balding man my hair is gray decades ago it was brown
Were I a horse I'm sure by now that I would have been put down
I feel so very stiff and old father time is catching up on me
And I for one don't fear life's end what is to be will be.
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