The most useful farmyard animal,
When I grew up, of course,
Was not the cat, or dog, or chook,
But the big old Clydesdale horse.

They used to work so very hard,
And never would complain;
Not even when they hurt themselves,
Did they show any pain.

For tractors then were quite unknown,
They were so very new;
And all throughout the district you'd find
There were only one or two.

In the growing of the crops the horse,
Took part in every way;
From the plowing of the river flats,
To the baling on the hay.

The first step was the plowing,
And the breaking of the ground;
Using plows and gangs of harrows,
Before planting time came round.

Then the seeds were planted,
From a seed drill, old and worn;
And refreshing irrigation water, 
From the river would be drawn.

The lucerne as it grew,
Turned a brilliant shade of green;
And the little purple flowers,
Made a very pretty scene.

It would then be time for mowing,
Before baling of the hay;
And many deadly snakes liked lucerne,
To lie hidden in each day.

Quite often then, the mower,
With whirring blades would slice,
The slower moving snakes in half, 
Which wasn't very nice.

The lucern would be gathered
With horse-drawn rakes to form,
Long rows, like little wavelets,
Just before a storm.

And then the hay was taken, 
To the hay shed in a cart;
Drawn, once again, by big Clydesdales,
So the baling they could start.

In the baling of the hay,
The horse again took part;
But that's another tale to tell,
It was a farmyard art.

The hay was stored in sheds until,
A buyer would come down;
And great wagons would deliver it,
To the railhead, in the town.

And so I end my little tale, 
In tribute to the horse;
Of things that were done in times gone by,
That are history now of course.

For we have gone mechanical,
The tractor now is king;
And those old remaining Clydesdales, 
Don't have to do a thing.