This is our heritage; the far-flung grass, <br />The golden stubble and the dark-red moor; <br />Men pass and perish as the swift years pass, <br />But wide and wind-swept still the fields endure. <br />This is our heritage; the love of sport, <br />A fair ambition and a friendly strife, <br />The rivalry of farm and camp and court, <br />The keen endeavour of a clean, hard life. <br />The hoofs of horses on the trampled lea, <br />The crash and rattle of the broken rail <br />Where the first flight ride reckless, knee to knee, <br />And bold men face the dangers of the vale. <br />The cry of hounds, the holloa and the horn ; <br />The lean red shadows where the foxes run; <br />To these and all their challenge we were born, <br />And these we leave behind us, sire to son. <br />This is the heritage that none can take, <br />The gift we hold, the gift we give again, <br />And this the spirit that no Time can break, <br />So long as England and her fields remain.<br /><br />William Henry Ogilvie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/our-heritage-2/
