THE OLD PACING BROOD MARE. 



There she is, and there she'll stay, 



No, sir! she can't be bought today; 



Beg pardon, mister, your offer's fair, 



But money won't buy that old pacing mare; 



Times may get hard, and crops may fail, 



But the old pacer ain't for sale. 



Foundered? Yes, sir, I'll grant you that. 

 She's had bangin' enough to kill a cat; 

 So you'd be if you'd gone through 

 One-half the work she's had to do. 

 Two hundred's all she's worth, maybe, 

 But you offer ten, and she stops with me. 



You see the house, and you see the barn. 

 And look around and you'll see the farm; 

 Mine, every bit of it, free and fair, 

 And all of it bought by the pacing mare; 

 Guess if the honest truth were known. 

 She's got a right to feel quite at home. 



Fifteen years ago this spring 

 She was six, and as clean a thing 

 As ever answered the judge's bell; 

 Fast as a bullet, sound and well, 

 Good for three heats in twenty-two 

 Or a trifle better, twixt me and you. 



Father'd been dead a year or more, 

 Mother'd been called home long before; 

 And I was running things all alone, 

 With the farm and everything my own. 

 And the mare a-pacing like all possessed. 

 And me a sucker — you know the rest. 



The gang got round me and turned my head, 



I got to forgetting the time for bed, 



And playing poker, and soaking rye, 



And making father's money fly; 



Till at last we started a campaign tear, 



Me and the gang and the pacing mare. 



