Riderless

A broken bridle trailing,
A saddle scratched and scarred –
And Brown Bee at the railing
That rings the station yard;
No stockman sits astride her,
But, by those flanks a-foam,
Wild Terror was the rider
That lashed the good mare home!

She snorts across the moonlight
Through nostrils red and wide
The challenge of the unbacked colt
To those who dare not ride;
She snorts across the moonlight
Through nostrils wide and red
The terror of a dumb beast
That has looked upon the dead. . .

His saddle and his bridle
We’ve softly laid aside,

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poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Skyline Tommy

He loves all games that good men play-
And plays them clean and straight-
But most the chase of foxes
With all its turns of fate.
When far behind him in the vale
Strings out our beaten hunt
With easy grace he keeps his place,
His rightful place, in front.
He always seems to lead us
Whate'er the pace may be-
‘ He's always on the skyline! '
As some one said to me.
‘Tis true his horses are the best,
‘Tis true he steals his start,
But none could hold a line so bold
Without a gallant heart.
So here's to Skyline Tommy,
The bravest of our guides!
In all the scattered counties
No finer horseman rides;

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poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Our Pilots

You that run the reddened ditch among the drifted leaves
May set the pace to conquerors and guide the sons of kings!
You that on your stealthy feet go through the wood like thieves
May lead your troop, a hundred horse, when once a holloa rings!
You that, if you lay in death, the poorest churl would pass-
You whose brush and mask and pads there's not a tramp would take-
Can set the pride of England riding jealous on the grass
And captains, earls, and countesses contending in your wake!
You're vermin to a vast of folk, but glory to a few.
What is it in your creeping stride that calls and calls and calls?
What is it, when the racing pack runs on from scent to view,
That rallies us to ride our best - dead straight - and chance the falls?

poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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The Stable Path

The last red rose on the arch has faded,
The border has mourned for its last white flower;
The dahlias droop where the frost has raided,
The grass is wet with an autumn shower;
Dull are the paths with their leaf-strewn gravel,
Cold is the wind as it wanders by,
Still there's a path that a man can travel
Happy at heart though the roses die.
The path to the stable!- Though summer be ended,
Though down through the garden no bird be astir,
This path has new melodies tunefully blended-
The flick of a whip with the clink of a spur!
So-on through the yew-trees where shadows strike chiller,
Across the paved courtyard, at last to the stall
Where, pawing in eagerness, chained on the pillar
Stands, champing his bit-bars, the Pearl of them All!

poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Hounds!

There is music on disc and on wireless,
Band-music, dance-tunes for the tireless,
Sweet music from day unto day;
But the music a man will remember
Shakes down the last leaves of November,
And speeds the wild geese in December,
And greets the first oak-bud in May.
What string with such beauty can tremble?
What bugle such raptures assemble?
What trumpet can sound such a call?
Is there ever a melody nearer
The quick-beating heart of the hearer?
Is there ever a tune that is dearer
As it chooses a dance for us all?
No song is so sweet in the setting,
No lilt so forbids all forgetting
Or lingers so long by the way;
When the shadows of night gather o’er us,
And the scarlet has faded before us,
The ring of that ravishing chorus

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poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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The Right Sort

We have hustled that litter in Heatherlie Whin,
Two crouch in the bracken, two dodge in the corn,
But the fifth one as swift as the shadow of sin
Was away when he heard the first note of the horn.
He skimmed the broad meadow in front of us all
With his brush in the air and his mask to the moor,
Looking back with a grin from the top of the wall
Ere he dropped to the heather cool, safe, and secure.
His brothers and sisters will fall by the way;
They'll be harried and headed and chopped in a ride;
But this one will live for a galloping day
And lead us and pound us and scatter us wide.
Let him travel! – a good one. We’ll meet him again
When the fields in the dusk of December are dressed;
We shall need all our courage to follow him then,
When he steals o’er the open, a fox of the best.

poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Hounds going home in the Dark

Rustle of feet in the roadside grass,
Trample of horses' hoofs, and - Hark!
Blast of an anxious horn! Hounds pass;
Hounds going home in the dark.
Bold was our huntsman galloping free
On a difficult line to the hills to-day,
But his hand is trembling against his knee
At the hint of a light on the King's Highway.

‘ Car!' And the gold spreads over the sky ;
‘ Keep to the front there! Stop them, Mark!
' Toot-toot-too-oot ! - ' Halloo, there !-Hi ! ‘-
Hounds going home in the dark.
Crack of a whip as the headlights near-
Blind in the blaze they group and grope.
‘ Curse the feller, and can't he hear?
Put 'em across, there I-Cope, boys, cope! '

When never a star is hung in the sky,
With never a lamp or a lantern spark,

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poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Queensland Opal

Opal, little opal, with the red fire glancing,
Set my blood a-spinning, set my pulse a-stir,
Strike the harp of memory, set my dull heart dancing
Southward to the Sunny Land and the love of Her!

Opal, shining opal, let them call you luckless jewel,
Let them curse or let them covet, you are still my heart's desire,
You that robbed the sun and moon and green earth for fuel
To gather to your milky breast and fill your veins with fire!

Green of fluttering gum-leaves above dim water-courses,
Red of rolling dust-clouds, blue of summer skies,
Flash of flints afire beneath the hoofs of racing horses,
Sunlight and moonlight and light of lovers' eyes

Pink clasping hands amid a Southern summer gloaming,
Green of August grasses, white of dew-sprung pearls,
Grey of winging wild geese into the Sunset homing,
Twined with all the kisses of a Queen of Queensland girls!

poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Gone Away

‘ He's away ! '- With a quickened wild beat of the heart
Every horseman responds, riding hard for a start,
While back on the breeze with insistence is borne
The clamour of hounds and the call of the horn.
What crowding and crossing! What foaming and fret!
'Don't pull, you old duffer,' we'll get to them yet I '-
‘ Confound that slow tailor up there on the bay!
Does the fellow not know that a fox is away? '
Hark! Something like music! Ye gods, how they chime !
'Excuse me ! '_ ‘ Go on, then ! ' 'Oh, dash it, take time ! '
Don't cross me, confound you I '-' They're running some clip ! '-
'Look out for that pony ! '-' Way, there, for the Whip ! '
There's some one got kicked, and he's stopping to curse;
But we're clear of the crowd and it might have been worse.
The pick of the vale is the line he has gone.
‘ Gar'r away on to him ! Gar' away on !'

poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Canadians

With arrows on their quarters and with numbers on their hoofs,
With the trampling sound of twenty that re-echoes in the roofs,
Low of crest and dull of coat, wan and wild of eye,
Through our English village the Canadians go by.

Shying at a passing cart, swerving from a car,
Tossing up an anxious head to flaunt a snowy star,
Racking at a Yankee gait, reaching at the rein,
Twenty raw Canadians are tasting life again!

Hollow-necked and hollow-flanked, lean of rib and hip,
Strained and sick and weary with the wallow of the ship,
Glad to smell the turf again, hear the robin’s call,
Tread again the country road they lost at Montreal!

Fate may bring them dule and woe; better steeds than they
Sleep beside the English guns a hundred leagues away;
But till war hath need of them, lightly lie their reins,
Softly fall the feet of them along the English lanes.

poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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