You've a screw to drive it forard, and a screw to make it stop,
For it was foaled in a smithy stove an' bred in a blacksmith's shop.

It didn't want no stable, it didn't ask no groom,
It didn't need no nothin' but a bit o' standin' room.
Just fill it up with paraffin an' it would go all day,
Which the same should be agin the law if I could 'ave my way.

Well, master took 'is motor-car, an' moted 'ere an' there,
A frightenin' the 'orses an' a poisenin' the air.
'E wore a bloomin' yachtin' cap, but Lor!--what _did_ 'e know,
Excep' that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go?

An' then one day it wouldn't go. 'E screwed and screwed again
But somethin' jammed, an' there 'e stuck in the mud of a country
lane.
It 'urt 'is pride most cruel, but what was 'e to do?
So at last 'e bade me fetch a 'orse to pull the motor through.

This was the 'orse we fetched 'im; an' when we reached the car,
We braced 'im tight and proper to the middle of the bar,
And buckled up 'is traces and lashed them to each side,
While 'e 'eld 'is 'ead so 'aughtily, an' looked most dignified.

Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained and vexed,
And 'e seemed to say, "Well, bli' me! wot _will_ they ask me next?
I've put up with some liberties, but this caps all by far,
To be assistant engine to a crocky motor car!"

Well, master, 'e was in the car, a-fiddlin' with the gear,