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