* A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Latest poems | Random poems | Poets | Add poem

William Henry Ogilvie

Our Heritage

This is our heritage; the far-flung grass,
The golden stubble and the dark-red moor;
Men pass and perish as the swift years pass,
But wide and wind-swept still the fields endure.
This is our heritage; the love of sport,
A fair ambition and a friendly strife,
The rivalry of farm and camp and court,
The keen endeavour of a clean, hard life.
The hoofs of horses on the trampled lea,
The crash and rattle of the broken rail
Where the first flight ride reckless, knee to knee,
And bold men face the dangers of the vale.
The cry of hounds, the holloa and the horn ;
The lean red shadows where the foxes run;
To these and all their challenge we were born,
And these we leave behind us, sire to son.
This is the heritage that none can take,
The gift we hold, the gift we give again,
And this the spirit that no Time can break,
So long as England and her fields remain.

poem by William Henry OgilvieReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

The Artist

He stands at no easel, he mixes no paint,
He colours no canvas to gladden the eye,
Yet the picture he makes will not fade or grow faint
Till our love of the chase shall desert us and die.
He's an artist of parts
Who appeals to the hearts
That can thrill to good hunting and hounds in full cry.
By his seat in the saddle, his touch on the reins,
His skill and his mastery, who can gainsay
That here is an artist in all that pertains
To the horse and his handling - a real R.A. ?
An artist 'twould irk
Not to cut out the work
When the hats are crammed down and a fox is away.
You will find him no centre of salon or crush,
No letters attached to his name may he sign,
But there's no one so eager to handle the Brush
And there's none so consistently found on the Line.
If an artist you ask,
Here's the man for the task,

[...] Read more

poem by William Henry OgilvieReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

To One of our wounded

Old Man, by your broad contented grin
And the gleam in your quiet eyes,
You are back with 'Jorrocks' and 'Binjimin'
In the land where the good fun lies;
You are riding where rifles reach you not
On a line both safe and sure
From the meet at the 'Cat and Custard Pot'
To the kill on Wandermoor.
In vain do the cannon of memory call
From the Flanders fields forlorn,
When you hear by the stacks of Barley Hall
The twang of the ''ard un's' horn;
And little you reck of a broken thigh
And a bandaged arm to boot,
When the old comedian canters by
On his 'henterpriseless brute.'
For, back to you comes each sound and sight
At a touch of the magic pen,
Till you take your place in the old first flight,
With a lead on the grass again,

[...] Read more

poem by William Henry OgilvieReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

As They Come

Right and left the leaders wheel,
Seeking gap and gate,
Catch his head and give him heel!
Ride your country straight!
Fences are by fortune made,
Not by rule of thumb.
Lash him at them unafraid!
Take 'em as they come!
Hedges may be rough and rank,
Thick and three feet through,
Doubled with a ditch or bank-
What's the odds to you!
Some are standing six feet high,
Twined and twisted some.
Never mind 'em! Have a fly !
Take 'em as they come!
Walls and stiles and cattle-gates,
Ash and oaken rails-
These as fashioned by the fates
Slack the slacker's sails,

[...] Read more

poem by William Henry OgilvieReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Hands!

Hands! Gentle Hands!
When the Field at covert stands,
When your four-rear-old is sweating,
Foamed and fidgety and fretting
As a stray hound jumps the netting -
You can steady him and soothe him with your Hands!
Hands! Clever Hands!
When your tiring hunter lands
Over wall or ditch or double
With his noseband in the stubble,
That's the moment you're in trouble
If you have not got the saving gift of Hands!
Hands! Steady Hands!
When your reins seem useless bands,
With a mad brute going faster
And a toss-up which is master,
You may still avoid disaster
If Providence has given to you Hands!
Hands! Talking Hands!
At the fence below the Stands,

[...] Read more

poem by William Henry OgilvieReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

The Straight Goer

The ringing, hanging hen-roost thief-we have no use for him;
When they tear him up and eat him not a single eye grows dim;
But when a straight-necked traveller goes gallantly away
We grieve not if we lose him, for he'll run some other day.
The loafing, skirting, loud-mouthed hound that hangs about your horse
The while his bolder comrades gather thorn-wounds in the gorse-
We care not if he stops a kick or ties himself in wire,
The leader running straight and true's the hound of our desire.
Give me the fox that holds his point though fools and fate combine,
Give me the hound that follows him with nose upon the line,
The horse that never turns his head at fence or five- barred gate,
The man who has the needful nerve to cross a country straight!
And in the larger field of life let skirters stand aside,
Make way for those who want to work and those who dare to ride!
The only one who's worth a place to risk a fall with fate
Is he who steels his gallant heart and rides his country straight.

poem by William Henry OgilvieReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Yonder he Goes!

Always our fathers were hunters, lords of the pitiless spear,
Chasing in English woodlands the wild white ox and the deer,
Feeling the edge of their knife-blades, trying the pull of their bows,
At a sudden foot in the forest thrilling to ' Yonder he goes ! '
Safe for the space of a summer the cubs may tumble and play,
Boldly from April to August the dog-fox chooses his way;
But soon as the beech leaf reddens, soon as the chill wind blows,
He must steal, cat-foot, listening, ready for' Yonder he goes ! '
The sound of a horn in the bracken, the sound of a cheer in the ride;
Fourteen couple running for blood as though to the I brush of him tied!
Fourteen couple screaming for blood, and every hound of them knows
This is his right from the ages - the heart-stirring ‘ Yonder he goes!'
Not for the lust of killing, not for the places of pride,
Not for the hate of the hunted we English saddle and ride,
But because in the gift of our fathers the blood in our veins that flows
Must answer for ever and ever the challenge of ‘Yonder he goes !’

poem by William Henry OgilvieReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

The Call

Gold and green the elm leaves lean and interlace,
All the coloured woodlands are calling to the Chase.
Dew is on the stubble field, ruddy grows the thorn,
All the withered meadowland is listening for the horn.
Lures of lawn and hammock, rod and bat and ball,
Fade before the coming of a stronger lure than all,
Faint before the whisper of the padding feet that pass,
Fail before the witchery of hoof-beats on the grass.
England in her summer sleep turns about and stirs,
Hears the click of bridle rings, hears the clink of spurs,
Sees the gleam of spotted flanks moving in the gorse,
Sees the flashing scarlet of a Whip upon his horse.
Rippling water charms no more, nor the lazy noon,
Spent among the lime trees where a wild bee makes the tune;
Something fiercer tugs the heart, fans the Wood to fire,
Sets the pulses galloping, and wakes the old desire.
Girths are buckled, reins are drawn, stirrups caught again;
Women turn to sterner play, men go forth like men.
Where the storm-clouds gather, where the strong winds stride,
Autumn calls to England and bids her bravest ride.

poem by William Henry OgilvieReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Biddy, be Kind!

Now what do you want to be playing about for,
Reefing and reaching your head for the bit?
This is the gentlest of canters you're out for,
And neither yourself nor your rider is fit ;
I, who have lazed .
While the summer sun blazed,
At ease in a hammock with cool things to drink;
You, late a rover
In cocksfoot and clover,
With mud on your mane-locks and loose shoes a-clink.
This is too soon to be prancing and sidling;
The elm is still green and the ditches are blind;
The sun is still strong and suggestive of idling-
So, Biddy, be kind!
Time and enough when they're drawing the gorses
To put up your back with those ominous squeals,
To plunge when they pass you on cantering horses,
To flaunt your red ribbon and fling up your heels.
Slippy and tarred
Is the highway, and hard;

[...] Read more

poem by William Henry OgilvieReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

The Filling of the Swamps

Hurrah for the storm-clouds sweeping!

Hurrah for the driving rain!

The dull earth out of her sleeping

Is wakened to life again.

There are mirrors of crystal shining

Whenever the cloud-wrack breaks,

And grass-clad banks are twining

A wreath for the fairy lakes - - -

Lakes that are links in an endless chain

For the water is out in the swamps again!

[...] Read more

poem by William Henry OgilvieReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
 

<< < Page / 7 > >>

Search


Recent searches | Top searches