Illustration by Lionel Edwards

As, still as a statue, he sits on his horse,
    Watching and waiting,
Or rounding up stragglers behind in the gorse,
    Cursing and rating,
He’s always the same, hard-bitten and game.

The voice of a hound, or the click of a hoof
    Tell him what’s doing,
He knows, on the instant, alert and aloof,
    All that’s brewing;
Lean-visaged and tanned, he’s always at hand.