Oh my love is a fine bay mare who bears the name of Bramble.

She calls to me from up the bank, then down it she doth amble

I see her daily at the gate, her sharp pricked ears a-quiver

And how I wish she’ll come to me, her promise to deliver.

We sometimes meet in my own yard, but sadly all too briefly

She always has to leave again, for feeding reasons chiefly.

We like to groom each other during itchy summer days

I bite her and she bites me back, tho’ we’re not 50 greys!

My Bramble is a strapping girl, she beats me by four hands

But size is not important here, and this she understands.

We are a marriage of true minds and never will I waver

And even if she’s fickle, well it only makes me braver:

There’s some would say it’s food that brings her swinging down that hill

But I know that she loves me – you can say just what you will!