Graham Pratt put the poem "The High Mettled Racer" (origin unknown to me) to a tune of his own I believe.

THE HIGH METTLED RACER.

See the course throng with gazers, the sports are begun.
Amid the confusion the betting is done.
Ten thousand strange rumours resound far and near,
As Lords, hawkers and jockeys assail that idea.
While with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest,
Pampered and prancing, his head on his breast,
Scarce sniffing the air, he's so proud and elate,
The high mettled racer first starts for the plate.

Now Reynard's put up and o'er hedge and bush rushed,
Hounds, horses and huntsmen all hard at his brush.
Through marsh, fen and briar, led by their snide prey,
By scent and by view chase their long tedious way.
While alike bred for sports of the field and the course,
So sure to come through, such a staunch and fleet horse,
When fairly run down the fox yields up his breath.
The high mettled racer is in at the death.

Grown aged, used up, and turned out of the stud,
Lame, spavined and wind gone, yet still with some blood,
While knowing postilions his pedigree trace,
With "His dam won that sweep." and "His sire won that race."
And what matches he won too, the ostlers count o'er,
Loitering their time at some alehouse door.
Whole the harness sores gall and the spurs his side goad,
The high mettled racer is a hack on the road.

'Til at last having laboured, dragged early and late,
Bowed down by degrees, he bends unto his fate.
Blind, old, weak, and feeble he trots round a mill
Or draws sand, 'til the sand in his hourglass stands still.
Now at last cold and lifeless, exposed to the view,
In the very same cart that he yesterday drew,
While a pitying crowd his sad relic surrounds,
The high mettled racer is sold for the hounds.