Somewhere....

...along with horses and ponies, the line gets blurred,
so we have the Highland Pony, they're large, it's what I heard;
and of course with Scotland, then my family comes to life,
my ancestor came from there, when it was full of strife.

Peter Grant was a prisoner of war, captured by the Brits,
sold to Saugus Iron Works, it made his life the pits.
When un-indentured, if that's a word, he settled here in Maine,
started up a sawmill, lived life with no fame.

Maybe he brought the love of animals here with him,
from wee beasties to the horses, love without a whim;
so we have the Highland Pony, largest of the type,
work, or ride, lead or pull, it works with little hype.

Pulling a carriage or working with a plow,
mostly they can catch a breath, not so much work now,
they still live here in the world, spread far and wide;
but they still live in Scotland, and they're full of pride.

Shown here in the Highlands, the region of it's name,
Brrrr, it's cold in winter, but he lives here just the same,
ready to work or entertain, gentle sort of beast,
loved by all in Scotland, to say the very least.

So here in this county, the Clan still remains,
scattered here and there, growing old with some pains,
my brother Lysle takes tradition by the hand;
telling those who listen, the glory of the land.

Top: Highlands pulling a carriage in a skills test.
Middle: A solitary pony taking in the view.
Bottom: The Head of the Clan, Lysle E. Grant