She was a pretty, nicely mannered mare

The childrens pet, the masters pride and care

Until a man in khaki came one day

looked at her teeth, and hurried her away

  ***

With other horses packed into a train

She hungered for her masters voice in vain

And later, led twixt planks that scare and slip

The slung her terrified, on board a ship

    ***

Next came, where thumps and throbing filled the air

Her first experience of 'mal de mer'

And when that oscillating trip was done

They hitched her up in traces to a gun

       ***

She worked and pulled and sweated with the best

A stranger now her glossy coat caressed

Till flashing thunderstorms came bursting round

And spitting leaden hail bestrewed the ground

       ***

With quivering limbs, and silky ears laid back

She feels a shock succeed a sharper crack

And whinnying her pitiful surprise

Staggers and falls, and tries in vain to rise

      ***

Alone, forsaken, on a foreign field

What moral does this little record yield?

Who tends the wounded horses in War?

Well - that is what the 'Blue Cross' is for

      ***

Jessie Pope