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.