With lightest of hands on the bridle, with Highest of
hearts in the dance,
To the gods of Adventure and Laughter he quaffed
the red wine of Romance,
Then wistfully turning the goblet he spilled the last
drops at our feet.
And left us his tales to remember and left us his
songs to repeat.
Where the trumpets of Babylon sounded we have
ridden the sands at his side ;
Where Ishtar stood pale by the palm trees we have
asked for no other as guide.
We have bowed to Valeria's beauty ; with Esca's
our thoughts have gone home ;
We have shouted our ' Ave I ' to Caesar with Hippias,
swordsman of Rome.
By many a devious pathway, on many a far-away
shore,
We have followed the brave Whyte-Melville in love
and sport and war ;
We have ridden the wide world over, but always he
brought us back
To the red of the English woodlands and the cry of
an English pack.
If abroad in the asphodel meadows some Lord of the
Valley be found
That will try through the combes of the starlight the
courage of horse and of hound,
Could we ride to those infinite spaces girth deep
through the rose of the West,
We should find him once more on the Clipper dis-
putting the lead with the best.
And there with his peers we may leave him, with all
the good men and the true
Who have come to the Last of the Gateways and
laughed and gone galloping through ;
Where Kingsley for ever and ever to the chime of his
darlings may ride,
And Gordon, long-limbed upon Iseult, come stealing
the Cup by a stride.
