Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust
An October's day, towards evening
Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough
Salt on a deep chest seasoning
Last of the line at an honest day's toil
Turning the deep sod under
Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone
Flies at the nostrils plunder.

The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie
  with the Shire on his feathers floating
Hauling soft timber into the dusk
  to bed on a warm straw coating.

Heavy Horses, move the land under me
Behind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding free
Now you're down to the few
And there's no work to do
The tractor's on its way.

Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed
  to keep the old line going.
And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the wood
  behind the young trees growing
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
  and your eighteen hands at the shoulder
And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry
  and the nights are seen to draw colder
They'll beg for your strength, your gentle power
  your noble grace and your bearing
And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls
  in the wake of the deep plough, sharing.

Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill
Up into the cold wind facing
In stiff battle harness, chained to the world
Against the low sun racing
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood
rein of polished leather
Heavy Horse and a tumbling sky
Brewing heavy weather.

Bring a song for the evening
Clean brass to flash the dawn
  across these acres glistening
  like dew on a carpet lawn
In these dark towns folk lie sleeping
  as the heavy horses thunder by
  to wake the dying city
  with the living horseman's cry
At once the old hands quicken ---
  bring pick and wisp and [bad word] ---
  thrill to the sound of all
  the heavy [bad word] home.