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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339841" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>By Flood and Field 2</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">They have saddled a hundred milk-white steeds,<br>They have bridled a hundred black.—Old Ballad.<br>'He turned in his saddle, now follow who dare,<br>I ride for my country, quoth . . .'—Lawrence.<br> <br>I REMEMBER the lowering wintry morn,<br>And the mist on the Cotswold hills,<br>Where I once heard the blast of the huntsman's horn,<br>Not far from the seven rills.<br>Jack Esdale was there, and Hugh St. Clair,<br>Bob Chapman and Andrew Kerr,<br>And big George Griffiths on Devil-May-Care,<br>And—black Tom Oliver.<br>And one who rode on a dark-brown steed,<br>Clean jointed, sinewy, spare,<br>With the lean game head of the Blacklock breed,<br>And the resolute eye that loves the lead,<br>And the quarters massive and square—<br>A tower of strength, with a promise of speed<br>(There was Celtic blood in the pair).<br> <br>I remember how merry a start we got,<br>When the red fox broke from the gorse,<br>In a country so deep, with a scent so hot,<br>That the hound could outpace the horse ;<br>I remember how few in the front rank show'd,<br>How endless appeared the tail,<br>On the brown hill side, where we cross'd the road,<br>And headed towards the vale.<br>The dark-brown steed on the left was there,<br>On the right was a dappled grey,<br>And between the pair, on a chestnut mare,<br>The duffer who writes this lay.<br>What business had 'this child' there to ride ?<br>But little or none at all ;<br>Yet I held my own for a while in 'the pride<br>That goeth before a fall.'<br>Though rashness can hope for but one result,<br>We are heedless when fate draws nigh us,<br>And the maxim holds good, 'Quem perdere vult<br>Deus, dementat prius.'<br> <br>The right hand man to the left hand said,<br>As down in the vale we went,<br>'Harden your heart like a millstone, Ned,<br>And set your face as flint ;<br>Solid and tall is the rasping wall<br>That stretches before us yonder ;<br>You must have it at speed or not at all,<br>'Twere better to halt than to ponder,<br>For the stream runs wide on the take-off side,<br>And washes the clay bank under ;<br>Here goes for a pull, 'tis a madman's ride,<br>And a broken neck if you blunder.'<br> <br>No word in reply his comrade spoke,<br>Nor waver'd nor once look'd round,<br>But I saw him shorten his horse's stroke<br>As we splash'd through the marshy ground ;<br>I remember the laugh that all the while<br>On his quiet features play'd :—<br>So he rode to his death, with that careless smile,<br>In the van of the 'Light Brigade' ;<br>So stricken by Russian grape, the cheer<br>Rang out, while he toppled back,<br>From the shattered lungs as merry and clear<br>As it did when it roused the pack.<br>Let never a tear his memory stain,<br>Give his ashes never a sigh,<br>One of many who perished, Not in vain,<br>As a type of our chivalry—<br> <br>I remember one thrust he gave to his hat,<br>And two to the flanks of the brown,<br>And still as a statue of old he sat,<br>And he shot to the front, hands down ;<br>I remember the snort and the stag-like bound<br>Of the steed six lengths to the fore,<br>And the laugh of the rider while, landing sound,<br>He turned in his saddle and glanced around ;<br>I remember—but little more,<br>Save a bird's-eye gleam of the dashing stream<br>A jarring thud on the wall,<br>A shock and the blank of a nightmare's dream—<br>I was down with a stunning fall</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Adam+Lindsay+Gordon">Adam Lindsay Gordon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339841" data-title="By Flood and Field 2 de Adam Lindsay Gordon" data-description="They have saddled a hundred milk-white steeds,
They have bridled a hundred black.—Old Ballad.
'He turned in his saddle, now follow who dare,
I ride for my country, quoth . . .'—Lawrence.
 
I REMEMBER the lowering wintry morn,
And the mist on t..."></div>
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