Classic Poem

My mare's the mare for me, O;
Nor do I care how good a mare
Another man's may be, O;
Nor what her back may bear.
I'm not ashamed to sit her back,
Nor tie her up at any rack;
Nor yet ashamed to show my face
With her at any place.

She's round in ev'ry line, O;
Her back is wide, she's narrow-thigh'd,
Her chest is broadly fine, O;
She steps along with pride.
Her shapely hoof is firm and round,
Her steps take even time and ground;
Her nostril's wide, her eyes are grey,
Her pace is light and gay.

As under me she spanks, O,
From far to nigh, the hillocks fly,
On fly the walls and banks, O,
And tow'rs, from small to high.
Her trot is all but canter speed,
Her canter leaves but little need
Of galloping, wherein her springs
Would seem a flight with wings.

For when full-speed I ride, O,
The nod I bend to some old friend
Begins back near his side, O,
Far after him to end.
And while along my way I glide
As smooth's a skiff before the tide,
And see the rising bridge ahead,
'Tis under foot, and fled.