Henry the horse

Henry the horse

Henry was a good horse
Who tried hard at his work
Whether pulling cart or plough
He was never found to shirk

But in his stall at night
He would dream his horsey dreams
And his heart would swell with pride
At his imaginary schemes

For his greatest hope
Though it sounded quite irrational
Was one day to enter
And win the Grand National

He had it all planned out
His triumph and acclaim
But knew he’d still be modest
When he’d won his fame

Then one Sunday afternoon
As Henry wandered at his ease
A rotten branch cracked and fell
From an old oak tree

It landed right on Henry’s head
And rattled his horsey mind
Then suddenly he realised
He was on the starting line

The starting pistol cracked
And then the race began
Henry set off with the rest
And ran, and ran, and ran

He jumped over the paddock fence
And galloped down the lane
He cleared the ditch at the bottom
Then raced back up again

He jumped over a haystack
A plough and a harrow
And Beecher’s Brook looked like
A rusting wheel barrow

He could hear the crowd go wild
As he passed the finish post
They said he was the greatest
They said he was the most

The mayor praised Henry in his speech
And gave him a fine new brush
While the mayoress kissed Henry's nose
Which made the proud horse blush

Five years later Henry retired
And now lives at an easier pace
But still remembers with such pride
How he won the greatest race.