The galloping seasons have slackened his pace, <br />And stone wall and timber have battered his knees <br />It is many a year since he gave up his place <br />To live out his life in comparative ease. <br />No more does he stand with his scarlet and white <br />Like a statue of marble girth deep in the gorse; <br />No more does he carry the Horn of Delight <br />That called us to follow the huntsman's old horse. <br />How many will pass him and not understand, <br />As he trots down the road going cramped in his stride, <br />That he once set the pace to the best in the land <br />Ere they tightened his curb for a lady to ride! <br />When the music begins and a right one's away, <br />When hoof-strokes are thudding like drums on the ground, <br />The old spirit wakes in the worn-looking grey <br />And the pride of his youth comes to life at a bound. <br />He leans on the bit and he lays to his speed, <br />To the winds of the open his stiffness he throws, <br />And if spirit were all he'd be up with the lead <br />Where the horse that supplants him so easily goes. <br />No double can daunt him, no ditch can deceive, <br />No bank can beguile him to set a foot wrong, <br />But the years that have passed him no power can retrieve- <br />To the swift is their swiftness, their strength to the strong! <br />To the best of us all comes a day and a day <br />When the pace of the leaders shall leave us forlorn, <br />So we'll give him a cheer - the old galloping grey - <br />As he labours along to the lure of the Horn.<br /><br />William Henry Ogilvie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-huntsman-s-horse/
