'twixt The Wings Of The Yard

Hear the loud swell of it, mighty pell mell of it,
Thousands of voices all blent into one:
See -hell for leather� now trooping together, now
Down the long slope of the range at a run,
Dust in the wake of -em: see the wild break of -em,
Spear-horned and curly, red, spotted and starred:
See the lads bringing -em, blocking -em, ringing -em.
Fetching -em up to the wings of the yard.

Mark that red leader now: what a fine bleeder now,
Twelve hundred at least if he weighs half a pound,
None go ahead of him. Mark the proud tread of him,
See how he bellows and paws at the ground.
Watch the mad rush of -em, raging and crush of -em.
See when they struck how the corner post jarred.
What a mad chasing and wheeling and racing and
Turbulent talk -twixt the wings of the yard.

Harry and Teddy, there! let them go steady there!
Some of you youngsters will surely get pinned.
What am I saying? I-ve had my last day in
The saddle: I might as well talk to the wind.
Why should I grieve at all? soon I must leave it all -
Leave it for ever; and yet it seems hard
That I should be lingering here -stead of fingering
Handle of whip -twixt the wings of the yard.

Hear the loud crack of the whips on the back of the
Obstinate weaners who will not go in -
Sharp fusilade of it till, half afraid of it,
Echo herself shuts her ears at the din.
They-ll say when it-s over now that I-m in clover now -
Happy old pensioner, yet it seems hard,
E-en on the brink of the grave, when I think of the
Times out of mind that I rode to that yard.


Hark to the row at the rails, there-s a cow at the
Charge: how she laughs all their lashes to scorn.
Mark how she ran ag-in little Tom Flannagan.
Lucky for him that it wasn-t her horn:
He-d make no joke of it had he a poke of it.
There she comes back! but he-s put on his guard,
Greenhide descending now, sharp reports blending now,
Flogging her back up the wings of the yard.

The breeze brings their bellowing, soft-ning it, mellowing,
Till it sounds like a spent giant in pain -
Steals up the valley on, sounding a rally on
Sonorous hills that return it again.
Useless my whining now, useless repining now,
-Twon-t make me any less battered and scarred;
Though I-ve grown grey at it - oh, for a day at it,
Oh, for an hour -twixt the wings of the yard.

Oh, how I yearn for those times, how I burn for those
Days when my weapons, the whip and the spur,
The double reigned bridle, were not hanging idle,
But I-m old, and as useless as Stupmy - that cur;
No good for heeling now, he has a feeling now
Not unlike mine - that it-s woefully hard
We should be lying here, groaning and sighing here
Watching the cattle come up to the yard.

Life has no salt in it. See how I halt in it -
I, who once rode with the first of the flight -
Watching and waiting now, feebly debating now
Whether the close will bring darkness or light;
Half my time pondering, back through life wandering,
Groaning to see how life has been marred -
Seeing the blots in it, all the bad spots in it,
Mustering, bringing past sins to the yard.

Shall I be able to show a clean waybill to
God, when he rounds up and drafts off his own -
When, at the mustering, millions of clustering
Souls come to judgement before the white throne?
Is the Lord-s hand on me? Have I his brand on me?
When I go up will the passage be barred?
Am I a chosen one? must the gates close on me?
Shall I be left -twixt the wings of the yard?