How Tipperary Got His Name

 

A story is told, by the cowboys of old,

Of a horse named Tipperary,

He was born in the pines where the Little Mo twines

Through the hills and on the prairie.

 

Then came the day, the little blood bay

Was corralled at the old Wickham place.

The rope and the knife, they altered his life,

But his future would deal him the ace.

 

For reasons unknown, he was left alone

To run free on his pine-clad hills

And for many years, he followed his ears,

And practiced his native skills.

 

When finally the war began with a roar,

And brought cries for every good horse.

He was brought in, to a holding pen,

With fate holding fast to his course.

 

The bay was inspected, but quickly rejected,

Because pacers stand out in the troop.

So Ol’ Wickham said, “Get ready Ed,

While Latham shakes out his loop.”

 

They saddled the horse by using force,

And Marty was ready to ride.

The bronc was as calm as a latent bomb,

Though the sweat had stained his hide.

 

Then a local wag was heard to brag,

That pacers just never buck.

But the horse never heard the sage’s word,

So Marty was gonna need luck.

 

The rain had ceased, to say the least,

But the muck and the mud remained.

Yet, Marty smiled at a neighbor’s child,

As Frank held the horse restrained.

 

Ed waved his hat from where he sat,

And the blindfold was pulled with a flair.

This spark of news lit the horse’s fuse,

And he exploded in the air.

 

Now the local report said the ride was short,

But history was made just the same.

Poor Marty’s blood was missed with the mud

While the horse came out with a name.

 

How Marty was thrown is already known,

He landed on all fours in the mud.

The little bay horse never waited of course,

And galloped away like a stud.

 

Yes, Marty was piled, and yet he smiled,

And his blue eyes twinkled with glee. 

He raised his head and softly said,

“It’s a long, long way to Tipperary.”

 

- Paul Hennessey