Down at the prairie side
Does the old farmer ride
At the comfort of his home
On his chestnut horse he roam
At the stable near the shed
Colored oaken brownish red
Is the little horse that sleeps
In bushels of hay of heaps
Do not fret, little horse
For soon you’ll race with force
But at the time being
I hope you don’t mind seeing
Out the view of where you lie
The bigger horses run by.