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