O I was thine, and thou wert mine, and <br />ours the boundless plain, <br />Where the winds of the North, my gallant <br />steed, ruffled thy tawny mane, <br />But the summons hath come with roll of drum, <br />and bugles ringing shrill, <br />Startling the prairie antelope, the grizzly of the <br />hill. <br />'Tis the voice of Empire calling, and the child- <br />ren gather fast <br />From every land where the cross bar floats out <br />from the quivering mast; <br />So into the saddle I leap, my own, with bridle <br />swinging free, <br />And thy hoofbeats shall answer the trumpets <br />blowing across the sea. <br />Then proudly toss thy head aloft, nor think of <br />the foe to-morrow, <br />For he who dares to stay our course drinks <br />deep of the Cup of Sorrow. <br />Thy form hath pressed the meadow's breast, <br />where the sullen grey wolf hides, <br />The great red river of the North hath cooled <br />thy burning sides; <br />Together we've slept while the tempest swept <br />the Rockies' glittering chain; <br />And many a day the bronze centaur hath gal- <br />loped behind in vain. <br />But the sweet wild grass of mountain pass, and <br />the battlefields far away, <br />And the trail that ends where Empire trends, <br />is the trail we ride to-day. <br />But proudly toss thy head aloft, nor think of <br />the foe to-morrow, <br />For he who bars Strathcona's Horse, drinks <br />deep of the Cup of Sorrow.<br /><br />William Henry Drummond<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/strathcona-s-horse/
