Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank,
     A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank;
     An’ set weel down a shapely shank,
     As e’er tread yird;
     An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank,
     Like ony bird.

     It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year,
     Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s mear;
     He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear,
     An’ fifty mark;
     Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear,
     An’ thou was stark.

     When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
     Ye then was trotting wi’ your minnie: 
     Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, an’ funnie,
     Ye ne’er was donsie;
     But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie,
     An’ unco sonsie.

     That day, ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride,
     When ye bure hame my bonie bride: 
     An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride,
     Wi’ maiden air! 
     Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide
     For sic a pair.

     Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
     An’ wintle like a saumont coble,
     That day, ye was a jinker noble,
     For heels an’ win’! 
     An’ ran them till they a’ did wauble,
     Far, far, behin’!

     When thou an’ I were young an’ skeigh,
     An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
     How thou wad prance, and snore, an’ skreigh
     An’ tak the road! 
     Town’s-bodies ran, an’ stood abeigh,
     An’ ca’t thee mad.

     When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow,
     We took the road aye like a swallow: 
     At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow,
     For pith an’ speed;
     But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollowm
     Whare’er thou gaed.

     The sma’, droop-rumpl’t, hunter cattle
     Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle;
     But sax Scotch mile, thou try’t their mettle,
     An’ gar’t them whaizle: 
     Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
     O’ saugh or hazel.

     Thou was a noble fittie-lan’,
     As e’er in tug or tow was drawn! 
     Aft thee an’ I, in aught hours’ gaun,
     In guid March-weather,
     Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’,
     For days thegither.

     Thou never braing’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit;
     But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
     An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket,
     Wi’ pith an’ power;
     Till sprittie knowes wad rair’t an’ riskit
     An’ slypet owre.

     When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep,
     An’ threaten’d labour back to keep,
     I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
     Aboon the timmer: 
     I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleep,
     For that, or simmer.

     In cart or car thou never reestit;
     The steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it;
     Thou never lap, an’ sten’t, and breastit,
     Then stood to blaw;
     But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
     Thou snoov’t awa.