Time was when the sportsman, with chivalrous care, <br />Would find a safe line for his follower fair, <br />And clearing the double stiff-planted and strong , <br />Would turn in his saddle to cheer her along. <br />But now we've for pilot a damsel astride <br />On a stud-book and blood one, determined to ride, <br />With an eye for a country and vowed to the van; <br />And the slow ones may keep her in sight if they can. <br />As she lashes along in the wake of the pack <br />Not a man need expect her to pause or look back, <br />And the laggards who ride on her resolute trail <br />Need not wait for her cheer over bullfinch or rail. <br />To those who may follow not hers to give heed <br />So long as no rival shall challenge her lead! <br />If she levels a gap, if she smashes a bar, <br />They may take it or leave it, whoever they are. <br />As she rips at her fences our ears she may shock <br />With the' Damn you, come up !' of the steeplechase jock; <br />Should we choose her picked panel, avoiding a worse, <br />We may find ourselves warned with a suitable curse. <br />Yet later, at tea, she's all glamour and charm, <br />Low-voiced, with a laughter and smile that disarm ; <br />And, witched by her grace, we forget what we heard, <br />While we only remember <br />she went like a bird <br />.<br /><br />William Henry Ogilvie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-pilot-5/
