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Title: My Old Gray Nag
Author: Joseph Crosby Lincoln [
More Titles by Lincoln]
When the farm work's done, at the set of sun,
And the supper's cleared away,
And Ma, she sits on the porch and knits,
And Dad, he puffs his clay;
Then out I go ter the barn, yer know,
With never a word ner sign,
In the twilight dim I harness him--
That old gray nag of mine.
He's used ter me, and he knows, yer see,
Down jest which lane ter turn;
Fact is--well, yes--he's been, I guess,
Quite times enough ter learn;
And he knows the hedge by the brook's damp edge,
Where the twinklin' fireflies shine,
And he knows who waits by the pastur' gates--
That old gray nag of mine.
So he stops, yer see, fer he thinks, like me,
That a buggy's made fer two;
Then along the lane, with a lazy rein,
He jogs in the shinin' dew;
And he do'n't fergit he can loaf a bit
In the shade of the birch and pine;
Oh, he knows his road, and he knows his load--
That old gray nag of mine.
No, he ain't the sort that the big-bugs sport,
Docked up in the latest style,
But he suits us two, clean through and through,
And, after a little while,
When the cash I've saved brings the home we've craved,
So snug, and our own design,
He'll take us straight ter the parson's gate--
That old gray nag of mine.
[The end]
Joseph Crosby Lincoln's poem: My Old Gray Nag
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