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Scoff, man! egotistical, proud, unobservant,
Since I with man’s grief dare to sympathise thus;
Why scoff?–fellow-creature I am, fellow-servant
Of God, can man fathom God’s dealings with us?

The wide gulf that parts us may yet be no wider
Than that which parts you from some being more blest;
And there may be more links ‘twixt the horse and his rider
Than ever your shallow philosophy guess’d.

You are proud of your power, and vain of your courage,
And your blood, Anglo-Saxon, or Norman, or Celt;
Though your gifts you extol, and our gifts you disparage,
Your perils, your pleasures, your sorrows we’ve felt.

We, too, sprung from mares of the prophet of Mecca,
And nursed on the pride that was born with the milk,
And filtered through “Crucifix”, “Beeswing”, “Rebecca”,
We love sheen of scarlet and shimmer of silk.

We, too, sprung from loins of the Ishmaelite stallions,
We glory in daring that dies or prevails;
From ‘counter of squadrons, and crash of battalions,
To rending of blackthorns, and rattle of rails.

In all strife where courage is tested, and power,
From the meet on the hill-side, the horn-blast, the find,
The burst, the long gallop that seems to devour
The champaign, all obstacles flinging behind,

To the cheer and the clarion, the war-music blended
With war-cry, the furious dash at the foe,
The terrible shock, the recoil, and the splendid
Bare sword, flashing blue, rising red from the blow.

I’ve borne ONE through perils where many have seen us,
No tyrant, a kind friend, a patient instructor,
And I’ve felt some strange element flashing between us,
Till the saddle seem’d turn’d to a lightning conductor.

Did he see? could he feel through the faintness, the numbness,
While linger’d the spirit half-loosed from the clay,
Dumb eyes seeking his in their piteous dumbness,
Dumb quivering nostrils, too stricken to neigh?

And what then? the colours reversed, the drums muffled,
The black nodding plumes, the dead march and the pall,
The stern faces, soldier-like, silent, unruffled,
The slow sacred music that floats over all!

Cross carbine and boar-spear, hang bugle and banner,
Spur, sabre, and snaffle, and helm–Is it well?
Vain ‘scutcheon, false trophies of Mars and Diana,–
Can the dead laurel sprout with the live immortelle?

It may be,–we follow, and though we inherit
Our strength for a season, our pride for a span,
Say! vanity are they? vexation of spirit?
Not so, since they serve for a time horse and man.

They serve for a time, and they make life worth living,
In spite of life’s troubles–’tis vain to despond;
Oh, man! WE at least, WE enjoy, with thanksgiving,
God’s gifts on this earth, though we look not beyond.

YOU sin, and YOU suffer, and we, too, find sorrow,
Perchance through YOUR sin–yet it soon will be o’er;
We labour to-day, and we slumber to-morrow,
Strong horse and bold rider!–and WHO KNOWETH MORE?

* * * * *

In our barrack-square shouted Drill-sergeant M’Cluskie,
The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran,
The colonel wheel’d short, speaking once, dry and husky,
“Would to God I had died with your master, old man!”