Put the saddle on the mare,
For the wet winds blow;
There's winter in the air,
There is a better thing, dear heart,
Than youthful flush or girlish grace.
There is the faith that never fails,
The courage in the danger place,
Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.
The big bay 'orse in the further stall--the one wot's next to you.
Here's a keen and grim old huntsman
On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
And sometimes he is slow.
The franklin he hath gone to roam, The franklin's maid she bides at home; But she is cold, and coy, and staid, And who may win the franklin's maid?
It is mine – the little chamber,
I had it from my forbears
Said the king to the colonel, 'The complaints are eternal, That you Irish give more trouble Than any other corps.'
Men of the Twenty-first
Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,
Weak with our wounds and our thirst,
What of the bow?
The bow was made in England:
Of true wood, of yew-wood,
The wood of English bows;
What marks the frontier line? Thou man of India, say! Is it the Himalayas sheer,