Boys, I offer a toast
To that creature tied to the post
Who through all his ills and occasional spills
Still gives us more than his most
He’s black, bay or he’s brown
Sorrell or spotted around
He eats that ol’ hay even cows throw away
And makes his bed on the ground.
‘Round machinery and pumps that paddle
And trucks and gates that rattle
By a mill that roars he does his chores
He come here to jis’ punch cattle.
See them four brands on his side
The ones that wuz burnt in his hide
He’s been around and covered more ground
Than we’d ever care to ride.
For beauty he’s often hard put.
Covered with mill dust and soot.
But in a slick pen or a mud and snow blend
He’ll go where you won’t go afoot.
In dust so thick you can’t see
He breathes the same air that you breathe
And in cold rain he feels that same pain
That numbs and stiffens yer knees.
When the sun’s beatin’ down on yer head
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