Oh I’m a black Fell pony, my name is Mr T;
I have a bonny lady who cleans and comforts me;
She feeds me oats and Polos, of them I have no lack,
and she always rides behind me, and never on my back.

Oh I was born at Sedbergh, in nineteen eighty seven,
on ten square miles of fellside, the nearest thing to heaven;
they called my mother Jenny, and her last foal was I,
for she reckoned once she’d reared me she could just lie down and die.

I lived three years at Sedbergh, and then I had some fun.
They moved me down the valley, with a herd of mares to run.
I courted them in springtime, but all the rest o’t year
the girls they did the leading, and I brought up the rear.

When I was two years older, I’d got a lot of stock;
they caught me and they gelded me, which was a nasty shock.
They shut me in a hull and took away my foals and wives,
and I went to David Trotter, to learn to ride and drive.

He posted me to Flookburgh to join a trekking string,
but anyone who rode me was certain of a fling;
I’d duck and spin around, and with my rider in mid air,
I’d quickly be off homeward, and leave him lying there.

So I went back to Tebay with my reputation spoiled,
and Trotter had to sell me as if I were shop soiled;
at last there came a lady who wanted me to drive,
so I pricked my ears and said I was the best trap horse alive.

The lady she believed me, and we got on just fine,
she loved me more than anything and drove me all the time.
Her husband he got jealous of her passion for a horse,
and the upshot of it all was that she sued for a divorce.

Now I forgot to tell you, I have one big dislike –
the one thing I can’t handle, is a running motorbike;
one Sunday in December we met some in Scout Green
and I spun around and ran the fastest trot you’ve ever seen.

If I’d been on a racetrack I wouldn’t have been beat –
you should have seen the sparks that flew from under my four feet.
So as we rattled homeward, she laughed and cried and cursed,
she said, “I need a fight or else I swear that I will burst!”

“I’ll go and fight my husband, and buy you lots of hay.
He doesn’t speak to me, but damn, he’ll speak to me today!”
She set off into battle and the battle changed her life:
I brought them back together and again they’re man and wife.

Oh I’m a black Fell pony, my name is Mr T;
I kept my bonny lady who feeds and comforts me;
she gives me oats and Polos, for them I’ll never lack,
and she’ll always ride behind me, and never on my back.