[Illustration: man feeding horse]

MY OLD GRAY NAG

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.