Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed
To keep the old line going
And we'll stand here abreast at the back of the wood
Behind the young trees, growing
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth
You're 18 hands at the shoulder
And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry
And the nights all seem to draw colder
They'll beg for your strength your gentle power
Your noble grace and your bearing
And you strain once again to the sound of the gulls
In the wake of a deep plow, sharing
--Ian Anderson, "Heavy Horses"