Horses that we loved to ride,
Horses that we drove with pride,
Horses from the farmer's plough,
All are gone for soldiers now.

You who plied with van and dray,
One dull weary round all day,
Plodding still through storm and sun —
Now you gallop with a gun.

Nought for shot and shell you care,
Din of battle, smoke and flare;
Limbs so stout and hearts so true,
No man better serves than you.

England, whom you love as we,
Kept through you still green and free,
Keeps for you when war is done,
Happy fields of shade and sun.

Shall our childish hands no less,
Offering carrot and caress,
Sway your spirits than before,
Hero-horses, home from war?