_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.