Since first I copped a tidy lump of swag
I've always kept a decent little nag
But one as I shall sing to you now
Was worth a million jimmies in a bag
I matched her against the best that could be found
Four owners made a stake of sixty pound
So the race was duly run
And I'll tell you how I won
With brave Polly my old pony world renown.

Chorus: Down the road, away went Polly
With a step so jolly
That I knew she'd win
Down the road, the pace was killing
But the mare was willing
For a lightning spin
All the rest were licked
And might as well ne'er been born
Whoa mare, Whoa mare,
You've earned your little bit of corn.

Tom Jones the butcher thought that form untrue
Says he “Look here, I'll tell you what I'll do
My cob shall trot your mare again next Monday
And fifty more bright sovereigns I will blue
If you prove she can beat him once again
I'll never more in this world touch a rein”
Though I knew he'd got no chance
He insisted on the dance
So now I must tell you how we slew the slain.


Soon after that she reached the final goal
(I'd had the little wonder from a foal)
And grief too keen to talk about was mine, when
Poor Polly was carted off to fill a hole.
My missus and the kids all went with me
The last of poor pet pony Poll to see;
And our neighbours shared the grief,
That was felt beyond belief
When the little mare was buried R.I.P.

Written and composed by Fred Gilbert
Performed by Gus Elen (1862-1940)
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