�They have saddled a hundred milk-white steeds,
They have bridled a hundred black.� Old Ballad.
�He turned in his saddle, now follow who dare.
I ride for my country, quoth * *.�
– Lawrence.
I remember the lowering wintry morn,
And the mist on the Cotswold hills,
Where I once heard the blast of the huntsman�s horn,
Not far from the seven rills.
Jack Esdale was there, and Hugh St. Clair,
Bob Chapman and Andrew Kerr,
And big George Griffiths on Devil-May-Care,
And, black Tom Oliver.
And one who rode on a dark-brown steed,
Clean jointed, sinewy, spare,
With the lean game head of the Blacklock breed,
And the resolute eye that loves the lead,
And the quarters massive and square,
A tower of strength, with a promise of speed
(There was Celtic blood in the pair).
I remember how merry a start we got,
When the red fox broke from the gorse,
In a country so deep, with a scent so hot,
That the hound could outpace the horse;
I remember how few in the front rank shew�d,
How endless appeared the tail,
On the brown hill-side, where we cross�d the road,
And headed towards the vale.
The dark-brown steed on the left was there,
On the right was a dappled grey,
And between the pair, on a chestnut mare,
The duffer who writes this lay.
What business had �this child� there to ride?
But little or none at all;
Yet I held my own for a while in �the pride
That goeth before a fall.�
Though rashness can hope for but one result,
We are heedless when fate draws nigh us,
And the maxim holds good, �Quem perdere vult
Deus, dementat prius.�
The right hand man to the left hand said,
As down in the vale we went,
�Harden your heart like a millstone, Ned,
And set your face as flint;
Solid and tall is the rasping wall
That stretches before us yonder;
You must have it at speed or not at all,
�Twere better to halt than to ponder,
For the stream runs wide on the take-off side,
And washes the clay bank under;
Here goes for a pull, �tis a madman�s ride,
And a broken neck if you blunder.�
No word in reply his comrade spoke,
Nor waver�d nor once look�d round,
But I saw him shorten his horse�s stroke
As we splash�d through the marshy ground;
I remember the laugh that all the while
On his quiet features play�d:
So he rode to his death, with that careless smile,
In the van of the �Light Brigade�;
So stricken by Russian grape, the cheer
Rang out, while he toppled back,
From the shattered lungs as merry and clear
As it did when it roused the pack.
Let never a tear his memory stain,
Give his ashes never a sigh,
One of many who perished, not in vain,
As a type of our chivalry.
I remember one thrust he gave to his hat,
And two to the flanks of the brown,
And still as a statue of old he sat,
And he shot to the front, hands down;
I remember the snort and the stag-like bound
Of the steed six lengths to the fore,
And the laugh of the rider while, landing sound,
He turned in his saddle and glanced around;
I remember, but little more,
Save a bird�s-eye gleam of the dashing stream,
A jarring thud on the wall,
A shock and the blank of a nightmare�s dream,
I was down with a stunning fall.